


The Master of Sparrows

by MegTheFireGoddess



Series: A Flock of Sparrows [1]
Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-06-21 02:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegTheFireGoddess/pseuds/MegTheFireGoddess
Summary: Betrayed, imprisoned, and forced into exile, Arram Draper drifts through the world in search of his true home but can he ever truly be happy when the shadows of his past continue to tear at his heels?Inspired by The Immortals Quartet and The Numair Chronicles but takes a lot of creative liberties, effecting a darker and far more mature tone.





	1. The Burning Man

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this started as a sort-of prequel to my Copper and Shadow series but told from Numair's first-person POV. Now I'm just going to rewrite the entire Immortals series because I really enjoy writing from this perspective.
> 
> Funny how things work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten for what is the billionth, and thankfully last time on 3/23/19.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me! I know it could not have been easy but I appreciate it!

_...derived from Old Thak, the utterance of this word will create a bridge between two separate places in the same moment. Physical distance seems to have no impact on the word and select mages have been able to use it to send objects into Oblivion._

_Only one mage, Master Larees Larain, was able to use the word to send a living being into the Divine Realm. The amount of power required drained Master Larain’s life force and resulted in her untimely death._

_This type of direct consequence is not unlike Master Proten’s use of the word for transformation to force an enemy mage into a cat-shape and the conversion became permanent. There is no way to predict how the misuse of a Word of Power might affect the order of the universe._

“Whatever you’re reading must be fascinating.”

Startled by the proximity of the gravely, majestic voice, I turn sharply and send my wayward elbow into a precariously stacked pile of priceless texts.

“Mithros, Minos, and Shaketh!” I curse as the tomes crash into another pile of books, creating a veritable avalanche of parchment and leather.

The unrepentant office intruder chuckles merrily, making the jade beads in his braided hair gently tap together like a wind chime.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Though to hear such language from someone so young is a travesty.”

“I’ll have you know that twenty is a perfectly adequate age to engage in casual cursing. Well, when the occasion calls for it.” As if to prove my point, the chiming of a standing clock brings yet another curse to my lips. “Damnit it all! I’m late!”

Ozorne hauls me from my chair, a somewhat daunting task considering I am a full head taller than he is despite being two years younger, “If you miss another class, Cosmas is going to send you packing.”

I wave away his concern with willowy fingers, “I know, I know, but I’m borrowing time at this point. It's just...so easy to lose track of the hour now that I have full access to the archives.”

“The rest of us don’t seem to have a problem, but then the rest of us moved on to better callings. You, my lanky friend, you HAD to stay at the university.”

Rolling my eyes at the familiar argument, I gesture dramatically, “Despite my inability to keep time, I enjoy teaching. Besides, there’s still so much to learn!”

“You’re hopeless,” he says with exasperation and moves carefully around the mess and toward the door, “I was coming to see if you would come to the banquet when the Sirajit delegation arrives. It promises to be splendid.”

I stop mid-step in his wake but quickly recover before he wonders why I am not following him through the threshold, “Of course I’ll be there.”

He recognizes the overly cheerful note of my voice and passes me a sidelong look once I fall into step beside him, “I don’t know what my uncle is thinking. Inviting those traitorous fools here is just asking for trouble.”

“I’m sure the Emperor knows what he’s doing,” I say, trying to remain neutral in the face of Ozorne’s residual hatred for the Sirajit people.

“When I’m Emperor, Siraj will be a province of Carthak again. They don’t deserve their freedom.”

I clap him on the shoulder, my long hand on his thin shoulder creating a strange contrast, “So, what is it about this banquet that makes you think it will be ‘splendid’?”

Ozorne shrugs, dislodging my hand without meaning to, “Varice was the one who said it was going to be great. After everything I’ve seen her do, I’ve given up doubting her.”

“I gave up doubting her a long time ago,” I reply with a note of softness to my voice. The tone I only use when speaking of her.

Ozorne makes a rude noise in the back of his throat, “You two are too adorable for words. It gives me indigestion.”

“Has Varice told you about the ginger-infused potion recipe I gave to her? It’s supposed to work wonders on-”

Holding up a hand, he passes me a bored expression, “Save it for your students. I think I received enough of your random instruction during my time as your roommate. Sometimes I wonder if being forced to move back to the palace wasn’t the gods’ blessing in disguise.”

I smirk at him and wave my hand in a mocking bow, “As his Highness wishes, I will speak no more of my mundane remedies for stomach ailments.”

He rolls his eyes in my direction, “I’m going to hold you to that, you fool.”

We come to a stop in front of the classroom I was supposed to have been at fifteen minutes before. I expect to hear the riotous laughter of students enjoying their teacher’s absence. Instead, I hear only silence.

Frowning, I glance at Ozorne but he is as puzzled as I am. As former students, we knew there was no better time to engage in hijinx than when a teacher didn’t arrive to class.

“Maybe your students are used to you being late?” Ozorne offers but I shake my head and push open the door.

Sitting in the desk chair, Master Lindhall Reed’s knowing blue eyes scan a room full of obedient student mages who are diligently writing in their notebooks.

“Master Lindhall,” I say as I enter, bowing deeply to my mentor.

He smiles with closed lips, the expression providing a joke and an admonishment at the same time, “Ah, Master Arram. So good of you to join us. I hope you don’t mind but, while I was waiting for you, I decided to quiz your students on their knowledge of protective circles. I found them to be so knowledgeable that I asked them about the Burning Man Theory. They seemed to be lacking in instruction on that particular subject, so they are trying to define it from the title alone. I told them you would demonstrate a working model of the theory if one of them guessed correctly.”

There is a snicker from the doorway as I grimace, “Thank you for the addition to my lesson plan, Master.”

The man does not acknowledge my obvious sarcasm and bows his head genially, “You are most welcome. Shall we see what answers they have given?”

Turning toward the class, Lindhall waves his large hand and the ink stops flowing from the students’ quills. For a moment the mass of twelve and thirteen-year-olds seem confused but then they set their quills aside and wait for instruction.

I point toward a boy with chubby cheeks and round eyes, “Gissom. Let’s hear your answer first.”

His massive head rolls across his shoulders like a boulder before he stands and clears his throat, “Um, well. I read in the library that the Burning Man Theory has to do with breaking wards.”

Lindhall nods slowly, “Very good, but do you know how?”

Gissom shakes his head and Lindhall indicates that he should sit. The boy does so immediately, ducking his head in shame though he has no reason to.

“Does anyone know the answer to Master Lindhall’s question?” I ask the class as a whole.

A hand so dark as to appear like an ebony branch is the only one to rise. I smile knowingly at the girl who sits with bifocals perched on her broad nose.

“Please enlighten us, Kara.”

She stands, her thin body towering over even the tallest boys. “I surmised that The Burning Man Theory comes from the combustion theory by the same name. The physics behind it is that a controlled explosion robs a fire of the oxygen required to keep burning. In magic, the theory could mean that any spell can be broken with enough power. Though I doubt the theory can be proven one-hundred-percent accurate because even the mightiest mages cannot command enough power to break more complex spells such as Words of Power.”

Lindhall grins, “Excellent, young lady. Well done.” Turning to me, the mage smirks, “Well, your students have kept up their end of the bargain, Master Arram.”

I curse under my breath, causing some of the closer students to stifle giggles.

“I believe that because Kara guessed correctly, that she should be the one to come to the front of the room and draw the most powerful protective circle she can,” says Lindhall.

Kara pushes her glasses up her nose as she strides toward the front of the classroom and begins drawing a warding spell in a circle of frosted green magic. Once it is complete, she stands back and watches with inquisitive eyes.

“That is a very well-crafted circle,” says Lindhall, “Now, can anyone tell me what would make this spell stronger?”

“A second mage,” says Gissom, “Mingling magics always make spells harder to break.”

“Your students are well-taught, Master Arram. Yes, my boy, mingling magics make spells stronger. Please, come up and demonstrate.”

Gissom stands and sends his grass-colored gift toward the shield but it is arrested halfway by a tendril of grey magic.

“Wait, I have forgotten something. Have you been taught to make your magic compatible with another?” Lindhall asks Kara.

She nods, “It is already built into my spell.”

“Wonderful,” he replies and releases Gissom’s magic to continue on its path.

Gissom’s gift twists into Kera’s shield, making it appear like an image of ocean currents as it swirls. When the spell is complete, Lindhall sends a ball of his magic at the shield but it bounces back into his waiting palm, “Excellently done. I daresay, Master Arram may have taught you all a little too well. That is a spell I cannot easily break.”

“They are good students,” I tell him and Gissom’s lowered head rises pridefully while Kara looks impatient.

Lindhall gestures in my direction, both in acknowledgment and in a signal.

I take a deep breath and allow my magic to pool in my hand. I have to temper my power, using only a fourth of the amount Lindhall had thrown at it.

When my magic toúches the shield, it shatters like a pane of glass.

Kara smiles as she skips back to her seat and begins diligently scribbling in her notebook but the rest of my students stare at me in blatant disbelief

“See?” says Master Lindhall, “Powerful magic can break even a strong spell. It is a lesson that you would do well to remember as you continue your education.”

“Yes, Master,” the students chorus but they continue to stare at me. Some eyes have widened, fearful to know exactly how powerful their often absent-minded young teacher is.

“Wonderful. Then you are all dismissed. Enjoy a leisurely walk to your next class.”

The students quickly gather their things and rush out the door, none of them noticing Ozorne leaning beside the door in their rush to escape.

A brilliant smile lights Ozorne’s face as he pushes away from the wall to stand beside Master Lindhall and I. “That was extremely entertaining. I doubt your students will ever misbehave again.”

Lindhall smiles at Ozorne, “Forgive me, my prince. Were you hoping to assist Master Arram as well?”

“Only by trying to make sure he gets to his classes on time, Master,” says Ozorne, deferentially bowing to the man. If anyone in the royal family had seen him, he would have been verbally lashed for showing respect to someone of a lower station but within the walls of the university for mages, there was no title above that of Mentor.

“A noble effort, Ozorne, but alas, I think our young Master Arram might be a lost cause.”

“Your faith means the world to me,” I drawl and both Ozorne and Lindhall chuckle.

Lindhall pats Ozorne on the arm in a fatherly gesture, “It really is wonderful to see you again, my boy, but I’m afraid I must speak with Arram alone.”

Nodding, Ozorne turns on his heels to start down the hall, “I really should be getting back to the palace anyway. I’ll see you soon, Arram.”

Once he is out of sight, Lindhall lets out a long sigh and, for a moment, the sparkle in his eyes disappears behind a flickering shadow.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong per se,” he replies, “The Council of Mages is sending a representative to assess you for promotion to Black Robe.”

I furrow my brow, “But I told Master Cosmas I didn't want to take the test.”

“Someone has been whispering in the council’s ears, so I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice. If you can demonstrate the esoteric magics, they will award you Black Robe status. With that will come all the privileges, and responsibilities afforded only the most powerful mages.”

I shake my head in a mingling of shock and denial, “I don’t understand. What makes me worthy of such special treatment?”

As if to answer my question, my magic begins to react to my nervousness, rising to buzz just beneath my skin. Taking a steadying breath, I repress it and the dark mass slithers back like an admonished pet.

Lindhall comes to stand before me, placing a supportive hand on my shoulder, “Your innate modesty is one of your most endearing qualities but it is completely unwarranted. I have met many black robe mages and, yet, I have never met someone as powerful as you.”

“But what if I hurt someone?” I ask quietly, getting to the crux of my fear, “The final test is to speak a Word of Power. Uncontrolled, they can cause untold damage to the world.”

Patting me on the arm in the same manner he had Ozorne; he says, “Others will be on hand to keep potential repercussions to a minimum but you cannot hide forever, Arram. The gods would not have given you such a gift without reason.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I say but the words hold little truth, “Well, I best revise my lesson plans for tomorrow. I had planned to start teaching my students about rebounding offensive spells later but I believe it would behoove them to learn it now. They seemed unnerved by today's demonstration.”

“Today’s lesson was not just for your students’ benefit. Eventually, you will need to learn to forgive the fear in other’s eyes.”

“That is easier said than done,” I say as I turn away, leaving a mournful-looking Lindhall in my wake.

I return to my office at the university and find a letter tucked into the space between the door and the jam.

Frowning, I pluck it from its home and read words written in a neat, albeit grammatically simple, hand.

The letter is distant and impersonal as it tells me my father was lost at sea. There is nothing to bury and therefore no reason to make the journey to Tyra for a funeral.

I know my mother loves me, that she loved my father in her own way, but she has long since accepted that my life as a mage is far removed from the small world of textile trade, the only world she has ever known.

Something inside me cracks and my magic rises around me like a vortex, swirling around me even as my often-busy mind goes blank. There is a vague awareness of something crunching beneath my boots as I walk but I don’t know where I’m going until I find myself standing in the palace kitchens.

A young woman stands there alone, stirring something that smells faintly of greens and meat. The fire beneath the large pot flares and she snatches her hands away from the flames before they can damage her creamy skin.

Varice’s head swivels toward me, the motion pulling locks of platinum hair from their pins. “Arram?”

Something about me has her extinguishing the fire with a gesture and moving the pot away from the heat of the burner. Setting it on a reed mat, she abandons her cooking in favor of coming to stand before me. “You need to calm down. Your magic is going rampant.”

I shake my head and it is all she needs to see. With a curse, she whispers the spell I taught her almost a year ago. Powder-blue magic encloses me and I feel my gift collapse into my chest. I gasp at the pain as she cups my cheek, trying to soothe me. “Arram? Are you alright?”

Regaining my breath, I hold out the crumpled and singed letter as an answer.

Taking the piece of parchment with hesitant hands, she scans the words. I cannot connect with the tears that sparkle in her round, blue, eyes as she meets my unblinking gaze. Without a word she takes my hand and pulls me through the palace.

Murals of blood-soaked victories become blurs as I blindly follow her down the maze of hallways and through the door of a small but richly decorated room.

Like a mother tending to a child, she undoes the clasps of my robe and lets it falls to the floor. Before long, I am laying with my head in her lap as her fingers gently comb through my inky curls.

Each motion is a new crack in the walls around me until I can finally feel my throat tighten with tears.

“Thank you,” I murmur long after the sun has set and my emotional well has run dry.

Her hand stops mid-motion, “Don’t thank me. I hate using that spell on you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

There is a short pause as she absently twists a tendril of my hair around her finger. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know. That’s why I have to thank you.”

“No, that’s why you should tell me that you love me as well.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

***

When I awake in the morning, Varice is no longer beside me but a small breakfast is laid out on the table near the window. A note from her accompanies a drafted letter to my mother. It is almost as impersonal as her’s had been but includes a promissory note for the Tyran Bank. It isn’t for an exorbitant amount but more than enough to assure Patel can step into my father’s shoes without fear for the family’s future.

Varice has thought of everything.

After signing the letter and dropping it in the pigeon master’s basket, I walk to the Black God’s temple. As I kneel before the black marble veined with silver, a hand falls on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Ozorne says quietly.

“Thank you, but I’ll be alright,” I tell him though my monotone belies the words.

He kneels beside me, lighting incense to my father’s memory, “You can’t lie to me. I know how much losing your father hurts.”

“It’s not the same,” I say, my voice alien to my ears, “I can’t hate the ocean for taking my father from me.”

“No, I suppose you can’t.”


	2. Peaceful Lands

“Gods be good, Arram, you’ve barely touched your breakfast!” The words are insistent, holding a note motherly concern that betrays her barely-concealed anxiousness.

“I’m not hungry,” I say lamely, glancing down at the porridge as if it were a bowl of slugs. When Varice passes me an admonishing look, I find her delicate hand beneath the table and lace my long fingers through hers. It is a silent show of understanding, all-at-once innocent and intimate.

She squeezes my hand in return and her voice drops to a bare whisper, “You’ll need your strength. Those Words of Power are not kind to the body.”

“So you’ve said a hundred times. Stop fussing,” says Ozorne from across the table, his wide features skewed by smug insight, “Besides, you haven’t eaten your food either, so you don’t have a reason to pick a fight with him.”

Varice’s pointed nose rises into the air in the same moment she purposely sets aside the spoon she had been using to shift the fruit on her plate from one side to the other, “I ate earlier. And we’re not fighting. If I wanted to fight, I would ask what word he plans to speak. A question, mind you, he still refuses to answer.”

The abundance of gems adorning his fingers flash in the mid-morning sunlight as Ozorne waves away Varice’s concerns. “Does it really matter what word he uses? He isn’t about to stand before the executioner; he’s going to be the youngest Black Robe Master in history!”

“It isn’t as impressive as you make it sound,” I mumble.

Ozorne plucks a grape from his bowl with an unnecessary flourish, “Don’t be modest, my friend. Master Jameson probably wishes he had a third of your gift. I know I do. Just imagine how the Sirajit would tremble if I walked onto the field with a black robe!”

I stifle a wince at Ozorne’s words but I am not in the mood to bring up another well-worn argument, “It isn’t raw magical ability that matters when using a Word of Power, it is control. Something as simple as a change in the wind can affect the spell to the point of catastrophe. For example, when Master Dissron tried to use a word of power to change an enemy to water, a thermal spike made it misdirect and he was transformed into an elemental. According to legend, he is still roaming the shores of Crystal Lake.”  

I regret my thoughtless change of subject when Varice’s hand unconsciously clenches around mine. Disentangling our hands, I reach up and tuck the curtain of her hair behind her ear. The gesture reveals her guarded expression but she quickly hides once more behind a mockery of a smile. “Don’t bother apologizing. I know how you are.”

“What she’s trying to say is you’re an idiot,” Ozorne deadpans.

I shrug casually, trying uselessly to undo the damage my wayward mouth has caused, "Well, we both know how pointless it is to try to argue with her.”

“Very funny,” she says, but what is supposed to be a joke falls flat. The pendulum clock in the corner chimes the hour and Varice lets out a long sigh, standing.

I capture her wrist as she turns away from me. Everything we can’t say becomes a fog between us, dense with kept silence.

“Just- be careful. Alright?” Varice says finally, averting her oceanic gaze.

“I will,” I promise and watch her walk away, her soft skin sliding through my grip.

Ozorne moves around the table to clap me on the shoulder, “We’ll see you tonight at the banquet.”

“Of course.”

His meaningful glance toward Varice tells me he’ll make sure she’s alright.

"Thanks," I say, watching Varice open the heavy oak door without a backward glance.

He nods and catches up with her, offering her his arm. She takes it politely and together, two of the people I care most about in the world, leave me to wallow in the thick silence.

My gift, appearing as a sentient piece of the night sky, floats across the room and toward a crimson robe. Thick silk sewn into a standing collar with ornate clasps, settles on my shoulders like it is made from lead. Considering how difficult it had been to earn the red robe of a Master Mage, it almost felt like a betrayal to slid my arms through the belled sleeves for what was likely the last time.

Suddenly my home at the university feels like a cage. The haphazardly piled books and scattered papers are the marks of a young man with too many thoughts and not enough practicality. Of a student play-acting at being a teacher.

Sweeping aside my warring thoughts, I pull open the same door that had separated me from my friends a moment before and walk the familiar path to the training grounds. The very air around me seems to shimmer with nervous energy and I have to fight to keep my gift contained as I make the long journey toward the Battle Training Field.

When I arrive at the arched gate, I can see acres of barren land, every inch marked with the jagged scars of battle magics practiced by clumsy hands but also the grey, orange, and aqua magics that swirl in the threshold. The strong wards brush against my skin like ice. I recognize some of the magics as belonging to three of the four men that stand at the center of the field. The elderly Master Cosmas, with his snowy tuft of hair and kind grey eyes, leans heavily upon his redwood cane as he speaks to the bright-eyed Master Lindhall. The two men share easy smiles but only Lindhall gestures wildly, adding emphasis to his infectious passion.  Master Chioke, with his coppery skin and harsh amber gaze, stands away from the others with his arms crossed arrogantly and his orange gift floating around him like a toxic cloud.

Each of them had, at one point, molded me into the man I am. Now I am poised to surpass them as I step onto the field.

The fourth mage meets me halfway, offering his hand. The moment our hands touch, I feel his and he feels mine. Our gifts clash together like warm and cold air, creating a storm of opposing forces. It is something we expect but our hands remain clasped for too long and Master Dagani’s words whisper through my memory. "Magic attracts magic”.

“Master Arram, are you ready for your final test?” he asks with far more confidence than I can muster.

I nod because I don’t trust my voice.

“Let's get on with it, then,” says Master Chioke, sneering in my direction, “We’ll see if you’re really worthy.”

Our hands reluctantly separate and Master Jameson gestures absently, more like he is waving away a pest than urging me on. Nodding once more, I take my place a few paces away from the others.

Closing my eyes, I find my center and release the tight control on my magic. The dark mass dotted with silver lights seeps from my skin to surround me.

A single word, one chosen from among a dozen others, whispers through my being and I feel my power swell. From the earth beneath my feet a shimmering white light rises to entwine with my gift, bleeding into it.

My magic explodes away from me and a harsh wind nearly sweeps me off my feet. I open my eyes and am amazed to find a single face staring at me from a massive tear in the fabric of reality.

The man is my utter opposite, his features soft and round where mine are thin and sharp, his hair white and whispy in direct contrast to my thick and inky tresses. The only thing shared between us is a long, pointed nose that looks out of place on the older man but fits me perfectly. Around him, rolling waves of tall grass continue as far as the eye can see.

“The Peaceful Lands,” Master Jameson murmurs and I realize he is standing beside me, “My gods.”

The truth dawns on me and the portal closes, leaving me on the verge of collapse. I’m unsure if it is because I have exhausted my magic or because of the pain that has bloomed between my ribs.

Lindhall watches me with a knowing glare, “Why would you do something so dangerous, Arram?”

“I wanted...to see my father. I wanted to know if I could.”

Lindhall sighs but remains silent; his head bowed in defeat.

“So you ripped a hole between the realms for curiosity's sake?!” Chioke nearly yells.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Jameson says, suddenly calm, “The portal created by that word is temporary but as you know Words of Power always come with a cost. Somewhere in the world, another portal opened and, if he had crossed through, something from the black realms would have been pulled into our realm.” Turning to me, he half-glares and half-smiles, “You are a foolish young man but I look forward to knowing what else curiosity drives you to do.”

“You are not actually going to give him a black robe?! What he did was dangerous!” Now Chioke is livid, his magic violently twisting around him.

Jameson sends his burgundy magic out to wrap around the dancing orange tendrils and they extinguish like a candle flame. “Thank you for your opinion, Master Chioke, but I am the one who decides and I believe it would be a crime to deny such a talent.”

“Really?” I say, my disbelief plain. Even done by accident, doing something so dangerous was cause to be stripped of my mastery.

Bowing his head, Jameson passes me a sly smile, “You are henceforth promoted to the status of Black Robe Master. Congratulations.”

A smile creeps to my lips but it has little to do with my new status. It is the singular truth that finally resonates with my uncharacteristically slow thoughts.

My father is at peace.

***

Silver orbs dance through the air, revolving in a motion practiced over the years.

There is something rather cathartic about performing such a simple trick, one that requires no manipulation of elements and no writing of ancient symbols but which still draws awe from any who watch.

My nature will not allow me to remain within the realm of restraint. I have lived too long among the titans of magic to revel in the mundane.

I send the orbs up into the air, my celestial magic vibrating under my skin as I shape natural forces to suit my needs. The atmosphere in the room changes and already large eyes widen, necks craning to see what would happen now that a new variable had been added to the equation. I snap my fingers and the lofty objects turn into glittering dust.

Richly dressed children coo in wonder, holding out pudgy palms to catch the falling stars. It is a vain effort as the particles melt the moment they touch down, once more becoming one with the universe. That borrowed, returned.

A clap, so jubilant it could be mistaken for rhythmic fireworks, echoes through the small chamber. As it rebounds against the gilded marble and becomes caught in thick tapestries, its origin is impossible to discern. It was only the direction of the children’s shocked expressions that clue me in to the location of my venerator.

From the bejeweled archway, a young woman’s thin arms fall to her sides. The gold-trimmed hem of her simply cut dress falls with them, hiding the glimpse of warm ivory skin from my hungry gaze. The traditional sleeveless garment does nothing to flatter her lithe frame but there is an elegance about her that no boxy clothing can hide.

“One day you’re going to leave me and follow your true passion as a player,” she says with a sly smile. I return it, a softness to my features that I reserve only for her.

“Never.” The word is spoken in a sensual tone, consonants shortening to knife points and vowels extending out with promise.

Pushing away from the stone, she shoos at the children and they scurry away like mice in an enlightened room. Typically I would be perturbed by the dissolution of my audience but her expression speaks of things inappropriate for young eyes and ears.

As the door closes, she saunters toward me. The dangling gems at her throat clink together, creating rain-like music as she moves. The protective charm is one I designed and is something she is never without, a mark of our friendship turned to love.

“Don’t lie. You are always happiest performing your tricks. Both magical and mundane.”

Her gentle face becomes buried in my neck, a feat that requires no stooping as our differences in height allow her unrestricted access to that favored place. The tip of her pointed nose nuzzles against my collarbone, making me shudder.

My long arms are confident as they encircle her, claiming her as a separate piece of my heart. “I’m happiest at moments like this. When it is just you and I.”

She pulls away to pierce me with her glittering blue eyes, “Charmer.”

I cup Varice’s gracefully rounded cheek, my bony fingers brushing against her delicate ear to send a discernible shiver down her spine.

“I mean it.”

A flash of doubt crosses her naturally pouty mouth but I only see only the proceeding simper and hear the words, “I’m supposed to be overseeing the banquet but I could be convinced to take the evening off.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I reply despite the pieces of me that want nothing more than to take her offer, “Ozorne might need us and the last time we disappeared he was rather cross.”

She calls my bluff by pressing her chest against mine and affecting a falsely incredulous frown, “Says the man who is out here entertaining the noble's children instead of joining in the festivities.”

“It can hardly be described as festive, despite your best efforts. Leaving Ozorne now would be like feeding him to the sharks,” I say, trying to think beyond my selfish desires.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she pulls away from me and says, “I suppose you’re right,” but a mischievous smile finds its way to her lips. She flicks the ornate throat clasp of my formal black robe, “But that means you had better join me in the banquet hall. Otherwise, you're just the epitome of hypocrisy.”

A growl escapes my throat as her ministrations nearly break my resolve. I pull her back into my arms and make an oath with a kiss that leaves us both breathless.

Varice twirls away from me in a vortex of silk and gold and an impish glance is all the parting I receive before she disappears into a hidden passage that leads back to the kitchens.

After a steadying breath, I pass through the large gilded doors and back into the political battlefield.

Pitcher bearers dressed in a multitude of diaphanous dresses pour wine heedlessly, dancing through the banquet hall like butterflies on a summer breeze. Delicacies of every kind stand like mountains upon trays of silver that reflect globes of magical white light.

I take up a position off to the side, casually leaning against the marble wall and watch the proceedings like a researcher observing lions.

“How do you think it's going?” a familiar voice asks and my gaze flicks to the dais at the front of the room.

An elderly Emperor of Carthak reclines sideways in his throne, idly nibbling at a cake as he scans the room at regular intervals. The hyena head cast of the gilded throne makes him appear like he is being eaten alive. His simply cut shirt and knee-length kilt are spun from gold thread, gold hoops march up each of his ears, and gold rings adorn every finger and toe. Even his almond eyes are outlined in gold khol. The only thing he wears not made from solid gold is the jeweled collar around his neck but even that is the epitome of decadence as it is made from two rows of black opals, a gem prized among mages for its ability to hold and enhance magic. Solid fire dances from within the shadowy depths of the perfectly polished stones. A decadent meal for a cunning predator.

The young man sitting nearby looks very different from the Emperor. Dressed in a simple green tunic, Ozorne only wears gold hoops in his ears and a ruby ring on his right hand. Thin auburn braids tipped in jade beads that match his emerald eyes and lend to the simplicity of a man who was never supposed to be the Imperial Heir of Carthak. He sits straight-backed, the feathery relief on the back of the prince’s silver throne making him appear as if he is about to fly away on metallic wings. It is only his almost imperceptible staccato movements that expose the prince as nothing more than a magical copy.

“Your simulacrum needs work. It might fool those not paying attention but anyone who watches long enough will see how mechanical it’s movements are.”

“Well, not everyone casts spells as easily as The Hag casts dice, my friend.” The real Ozorne appears within the shadow of a massive granite pillar, a grin on his face that remains in place as his words turn serious, “But that wasn’t what I was asking.”

I let my eyes drift to the huddle of Sirajit delegates. They remain near the meatless foods, speaking to each other in hushed voices. Six-pointed stars, a cultural symbol, hang from their necks on silver chains.

“It’s hard to tell. They remain confined to their own ranks as if they are afraid to step a toe out of line.”

Ozorne rolls his eyes, “They should be, considering what happened to my father..."

I let my folded arms fall to my sides in a visible sigh that I barely manage to stifle audibly, “I know, and I know how much you distrust the delegates but perhaps your uncle is right to try to make peace.”

His green eyes ignite for a fraction of a second before cooling into steady embers and his shoulders fall in defeat, “If anyone else had said it, I would have knocked their teeth in but I know you’re only trying to help. You’re a good friend, Arram.”

“I do what I can, your highness.” Offering him a  smile, I make a show of bowing extravagantly. When I rise, he is sneering at me but there is a lightness to it that secretly laughs at my practical joke. Dozens of eyes are now peering at me, blatantly wondering who I am honoring. I have given away the game.

“I take it back,” he says with false hatred, “You are the worst friend ever.”

“Whatever you say, your highness.”

He snaps his fingers and his image walks from the room. I wave my hand and the real Ozorne becomes invisible. When he reappears, he is emerging from a side door to retake his position at the front of the room, still dressed in the simpler clothes of my best friend.

I return to my languid position and continue my observations but as the night wears on, I notice that the Sirajit delegates are no longer holding their deliberations in careful whispers. Their hands become animated, their octaves occasionally rising until their cohorts shush them.

Then The Emperor begins coughing violently. The ruby on Ozorne’s finger begins to glow and everyone knows what is happening.

The Emperor grips his throat, his skin turning purple as he gasps for air. Multiple hands reach for him but before they can help, the Emperor slumps in his throne. Dead.

Once Ozorne has rid himself of his offending wine, he shoots to his feet with sweat beading on his brow and hatred making green fire dance along his fingers. His fury focuses on the Sirajit who freeze in terror.

“WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT?!”

They turn on each other like starving predators, pushing each other forward but only one among them steps up to the dais of his own volition.

“It was I,” the balding man says calmly.

From seemingly nowhere, something silver flashes.

Acting on instinct, I send my magic to arrest the dagger the assassin meant to embed in his throat.

He spins, his eyes wide with fear. At first, I think he is just afraid of facing the consequences of his actions, but then his lips move in a message to me and me alone.

“I had to. He told me to. I couldn’t stop myself.”

A tendril of my gift rips the knife from his hand and the man visibly sighs with relief.

Believing him to be possessed by an evil mage, I blink forth my magic sight to try to find a connection but I see that the man consumed with a smokey green light. A poison has invaded his veins.

I step forward to help him but an emerald fire surrounds the man.

His screams of terror fill the room as he turns to ashes.

Unable to believe the truth of it all, my gaze flicks to Ozorne.

My kind-natured best friend no longer stands before the silver throne. Now The Emperor-Mage of Carthak has taken root in the young man’s body, twisting his lips into a satisfied smile.


	3. The Picture Within A Picture

Four events seem to define my existence over the next week but, to me, they are nothing but a blur of black, gold, grey, and red.

Black is the color of death. It is the reflection on a polished ebony casket more shadow than sunlight as six slaves carry the dead Emperor to the Horizon Tombs at the end of the Zekoi.

Gold is the color of decadence. It is crushed sunflowers and a new crown winking in the afternoon sun, not a single cloud daring to mark the sky.

Grey is a color that sticks in my memory. The color of bones turning to ash and the proceeding scream for justice and mercy.

Red is the color of war. Crimson-draped warriors marching through the city in rows as the people look on in a mingling of disbelief and pride.

I find those same colors sparkling within the mosaiced ceiling and I have to wonder at the pictures my roving eyes create among the lines — an arrow, a skull, an apple but never the image as a whole.

“He confessed.”

“That wasn’t a true confession. He was coerced somehow.”

“The others confessed.”

“While under the effects of truth serum.”

“Exactly, so why are you still going on about this?”

“Truth serum is illegal as well as a misnomer. After repeat doses, the truth becomes whatever the victim believes will make the pain stop.”

“But a single dose will make a subject pliant. I am well aware of its effects. That is why I only provided Ozorne with a modified version that doesn’t have the same side effects.”

I bolt up to stare at Varice in blatant disbelief, “You made the serum?”

She brushes her hair before a vanity, her blue eyes hidden behind cosmetic-touched eyelids, “Of course I did. Or have you already forgotten that my mastery was in potions?”

“No. I didn’t. I just thought you knew better.”

The brush stops mid-motion, her lips twisting into a frown, “Ozorne had an excellent reason for using that serum and it was better than the alternative.”

I scowl at her reflection, “There isn’t a reason good enough to hurt an innocent person.”

“They weren’t innocent. They killed the Emperor.”

“No, Ozorne did,” I say quietly, the truth slipping from my lips before I can stop it.

The brush falls from her fingers, clattering across the gleaming wood floor, “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” my voice is so low I’m not sure she hears me until she spins around to pin me with a glare.

“You don’t know that.”

“You’ve never been naive, Varice, and now seems like an inopportune time to start living in denial. We both know what Ozorne is capable of when he wants something.”

“He didn’t want to be Emperor!”

“Until he saw the opportunity to take his revenge against Siraj.”

Her mouth falls open and for a moment, she can see the truth but just as soon as it takes hold she pushes it back into the shadows. Bending down with a crisp elegance perfected over a lifetime, she retrieves her brush and turns back to her reflection.

“I won’t hear any more about this. It isn’t true and, frankly, you shouldn’t speak that way about a friend.”

Swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I stand with determination strengthening my spine.

“If he keeps going down this path, he won’t be the Ozorne we know anymore. He won’t be our friend; he’ll be our regret.”

I start toward the door but become frozen as her parting words find me, “The only thing you’ll regret is walking out that door. Come back and stop being silly.”

“There are worse things to be.”

My hand touches the knob and my breath catches as I feel my skin being ripped from me. Without needing to hear the spell or see the powder-blue magic swirl around me, I know that my magic is no longer within my reach.

I spin around to find Varice standing not even a foot away, refusing to meet my betrayed gaze. “I’m sorry, Arram, but I didn’t have a choice.”

Emerald light tears away from animated shadows to set my nerve endings ablaze. I cry out, my agonizing scream echoing back to remind me of the cost of my hubris. Or lack thereof.

Within the ether of my pain, I hear Varice wail, “You said you wouldn’t hurt him!”

“I wish I didn’t have to but you know how powerful he is,” the second voice is cold, an icy fog that numbs my agony until I can hear the rest of Ozorne’s reply, “No person should have that much power and no purpose. It’s an affront to the gods.”

Before darkness takes me, I finally see the picture inlaid into the ceiling. A flock of sparrows flying through a night sky.

***

I am unaware of actual time. All I know is the distant echo of footsteps and the alternating waves of consciousness and unconsciousness which become the measure of my days.

During my waking hours, all I know is misery. It seeps through the granite walls and whispers through the stagnant air until I feel like I am trying to swim in a wool cloak. Eventually, I drown in pain and become lost in the blissful numbness of sleep. I do not dream but I can no longer feel the void where my magic used to be.

An iron door swings open, filling the blinding darkness with torchlight that refracts in the air around me like sunlight catching in a prism.

A young man shadows the threshold and my active mind finally reaches the same conclusion the flesh on my nape had a moment before. My captor has finally come to confront me.

Ozorne appears appalled by my conditions, haltingly taking in my unkept state. My previously unruly tendrils are weighed down by grease and plastered against the swarthy skin of my long neck like swirls of ink, my bare feet are black with dirt and my roughspun clothing is soaked through with sweat. I keep my legs drawn up and my forearms resting languidly on my knees as I sit back against the weeping walls.

His regal shoulders are pulled down by the fury of my accusing black irises but his pointed chin attempts to cover the telling gesture by rising defiantly.

“You brought this upon yourself,” he hisses at me, admonishing me like a naughty child even as his voice cracks with youth.

“That is a matter of opinion but who cares for opinions when you have a crown?” I return with a voice devoid of real emotion. All passions, including righteous anger, have been ripped away along with my trust.

The Emperor’s naturally narrow eyes thin even farther, “Are you insane or just spiteful? Don’t you understand where you are?”

The words that leave my lips are nothing more than a weak whisper, laced with a pain I fail to suppress, “To be honest? No. Neither do I know why I am here. Yet, for someone who remains, quite literally, in the dark, I understand far more than anyone else.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ozorne and the Emperor are two very different people.”

His fists clench at his sides and he opens his mouth to retort but the appearance of another shadow stops him short.

She stands in the doorway for a long moment before pushing past the Emperor to fall upon her knees before me.

“My gods,” Varice murmurs as if they are to blame for my current state. Her delicate hand rises to touch my cheek but I flinch away.

Blue eyes meet mine and, where I had once found warmth and love, I now feel only a bitter chill. The memory of her gentle embrace splits my traitorous mind in two. Some of my sparrowly thoughts settle on her shoulders like tamed pets while others squawk angrily, demanding revenge. I quiet the latter. No matter the circumstances, I cannot bring myself to think of Varice in such a way.

“I’ll get you out of here,” she promises in a whisper.

Steeling myself, I reach up and let my long fingers brush across her cheek in a gesture that had once signified the sincere affection I held for her but now contains the melancholy of a goodbye. “If you truly care for me, don’t end up in the cell next to mine.”

The flickering firelight dances in the tears that spill from her agonized eyes but a shade soon smothers the reflected light.

An almost effeminate hand touches her shoulder and she stiffens as she realizes the Emperor is looking down at her with concern, “You shouldn’t be here, Varice.”

“Why not?” she asks, her sobs turning the words into a gasp, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him! You promised!”

The gold beads that tip hundreds of thin braids tinkle like a wind chime as Ozorne’s head falls forward, “I did.”

Turning, she grabs his hand in both of hers and looks up at him. Desperation colors her in a way that does not suit her in the slightest. “Then you won’t use the serum on him?”

A sad smile twists his thin lips but there is a light of arrogance to his eyes as they fall upon the young woman kneeling before him. “For the sake of my people, I must assure his loyalty.”

“NO! DON’T DO IT! IT'S A LIE!” Varice screams but when she reaches for me, Ozorne captures her in an embrace and drags her struggling form from the small room.

The door closes and I blink forth two forms that stand as shadows against the sudden darkness.

The black figures descend upon me like demons but I do not have the capacity for fear. I let them take my arms and, as one of them takes up a fistful of my hair, I truly believe that no torture could be worse than that which I have already endured. I am proven wrong when they yank my head backward.

A drop of liquid falls into each of my eyes. I try to blink it away but it becomes one with my ocular nerves and seeps into my bloodstream to burn under my skin.

My teeth clench and I can’t breathe.

Then the scorching sensation slowly abates and I let out a sigh of ecstasy. The door opens and Ozorne stands there alone, smiling victoriously.

“Is it done?” he asks the guards without looking at them. They nod and let me go, my limbs falling like wet clay.

“Arram, stand up,” Ozorne barks at me.

I obey his command without question. Somewhere, I know I should not comply but I can’t help myself. Ozorne’s smile expands into a grin, “Come, Arram.”

I follow Ozorne out into the dimly-lit hallway. Varice stands there, staring at me in utter disbelief, "What have you done?".

“Arram, say you are sorry for making Varice cry,” he says in lieu of an actual reply.

“I am sorry,” I say. My tone is devoid of actual contrition, parrotted monotonously.

“I can’t believe you did it,” Varice whispers, her shoulders falling.

“Of course I did! With his power, I can destroy Seraj once and for all! Finally, those scum will pay for killing my father! For everything!”

“This isn’t right. That serum was never supposed to be made,” Varice murmurs, flicking her gaze toward Ozorne. The expression he replies with is one of blood and darkness, nothing like the young man I had once called my friend.

“Why do you care! He lied to us! He lied about who his father truly was! About how much he cared about us! ALL OF IT!” The flash in Ozorne’s eyes stops Varice’s argument before it can materialize, making her shrink away, “I could only think of one reason you would not want me to use the serum on him. Were you in league with him?”

The falsely suspicious tone that cliff-hangs the end of Ozorne’s question sends an icy breeze through the hall, causing Varice to shiver visibly. “How could you think that?”

Ozorne shrugs, “You two have always been sickeningly close and you seem awfully keen to defend him, even after seeing the letters yourself. He twisted your heart for his own gain. Anyone in your position would be happy to see him reduced to nothing more than a slave.”

Varice’s head falls forward, defeat making her seem smaller than I would have ever thought possible, “I loved him. It’s just- hard to imagine-”

“I understand,” Ozorne says, his demeanor changing in an instant to one of compassion, “Don’t worry, Varice. Now your eyes are open and you can see him for the devious little spy he is.”

Nodding, Varice turns away from me, leaving her words to echo strangely through a mind so separated from my body that it feels like I am floating away. Only sensation, the feeling of fresh air on my skin as a door opens and closes at the end of the hall, reminds me that I am alive. Varice loved me. No, the tone of her voice made the past tense a lie. Varice loves me.

I know that should make me feel something but I feel nothing. I have found peace.


	4. What It Means To Be Free

The gladiatorial arena is nothing more than a temple to the Black God masquerading as an ode to the glory of combat. From the outside, it is a feat of wonder, carved from blocks of silver-veined black marble carted across the savannah and stacked into a circle of columns. Between the pillars are glittering granite arches keystoned with wedges of opposing white marble run through with black. Beneath the arches, made larger-than-life, are limestone men locked in various states of armed combat. An open archway houses two ornately carved wooden gates, the heads of snarling predators and armored elephants carved into the redwood with life-like detail.

Inside, walls of sandstone raise toward the sky. At the top, the populace stare in shocked silence from their stepped seats. Brightly dyed linens, ranging from the noble reds and blues to the common yellows and greens, make a motionless sea of color.

Standing between the masses and the arena sands are hundreds of soldiers in pteruges and golden chest plates, molded to exemplify the perfect male form and bathe it in the sun’s rays. The light refracts off steel-tipped spears, held point-up in salute to the great god Mithros. Behind them, black capes catch the afternoon breeze and take flight like a flock of crows circling the feast.

Crimson rivers melt into the sand and become one with the earth. The circle of armored bodies belong to the lucky ones, granted quick deaths when their hearts exploded in their chests. Behind them, the yellow silk robes of adept battle mages are picked up by the winds swirling around the arena, tossed about like fallen leaves. The dust remains, standing in for the corpses they would have been if their life forces had not been drained by the desperate need to survive.

The man standing on the sand is not me. He wears my curly black hair loose around his face and he bears the same sharp features as I do, but his eyes are not mine, the black irises surrounded by sclera turned grey-blue. A robe billows around him, embroidered with black stars on black silk. Willowy fingers tingle with the remnants of powerful magic. He can remember every spell that entered his ears and flowed through his blood. They had mingled with the screams of the dying, creating a symphony of carnage.

I am not capable of so much wanton destruction, but it is within my power. It is only my moral mind that won’t accept the burden of murder; my gift revels in it- unleashed for the first time in years to dance with chaos.

I revolt against the things this man has done but I can only logically condemn, I cannot feel the disgust. I cannot feel anything but the languidity of untouchable serenity. I want to feel that way forever but my mind screams at me to escape the cage of peace and fight against my new station in life.

A sharp clap breaks the glassy silence over the arena and the Emperor comes into my view. His full mouth is pulled into a malevolent grin as he speaks to the man and woman behind him.

“Is he not magnificent? That is only a taste of what he is capable of!”

One of the faces in the background belongs to Chioke, appearing just as pleased as the Emperor with only his wide eyes betraying his awe. Finally, there is Varice. Her face is the one I focus on, and its absolute terror is like a shock of ice water to my system.

The man standing among the sands blinks himself back into existence, becoming me. I fall to my hands and knees as bile rises in my throat. I have done this. I have killed dozens on the drug-facilitated orders of the Emperor. It might have been his words, but they were my hands. My gift. My curse.

This isn’t the first time I have felt this sudden revulsion and I long for the tranquility of the drugs.

Varice falls to her knees beside me and I look to her for comfort. Soundlessly, I beg her to drug me again, to free me from my morality once more. I find sympathy in her blue eyes and believe that she will grant my wish as she has before. Instead, her expression changes to a mask of distant contemplation as she faces the Emperor. “The drugs wear off too quickly when he uses so much magic. I believe the power he commands burns the serum away. We will have to adjust the formula if you want to put him on the battlefield.”

The Emperor’s eyes soften on Varice and for a single moment, he is Ozorne again. “I have faith that you will find a way.”

She smiles at me, “I always do.”

A single word dances from her lips in a whisper, a powerful word that she has no business uttering. It becomes a catalyst. My limbs begin to shrink, joints snapping into impossible angles. From my pores, keratin spines emerge and black vanes unfurl from amidst the quills, forming into wings. The rest of my body follows suit, shifting from human to bird in the span of a heartbeat.

“Fly, Arram,” murmurs Varice right before she faints, blood pouring from her nose.

I work my new wings clumsily, following the currents of the air and allowing them to lead me into the azure sky.

Soaring on the thermals, I am free, and yet, I am still trapped by the memories of the things I have done. Faces flash across my mind’s eye like pages in harsh wind and my wings falter. I close my eyes against them but they remain, burned behind my lids like brands on my soul.

Part of me wishes I could end it all. All I would have to do is tuck my wings and let myself fall to the streets below.

Then I think of Varice and the smile she gave me. My logical mind can’t reconcile it but my heart knows precisely why. It is the first time I can feel the words she had spoken in the dungeons what feels like a lifetime ago. She still loves me. Her love has given me a second chance at a life that is mine and I cannot toss that away, so I let instinct pull me toward the university.

I don’t bother questioning it, not even when I see the open window that would have never been left ajar without purpose. Upon darting through it, I find myself in the extremely familiar work rooms belonging to Master Lindhall Reed.

My avian form lands on an ornate wooden chair standing before a contrastingly simple desk. The papers on the wood surface are laid out in an organized mess. The rest of the room is the same; books balance precariously atop small glass enclosures that house an assortment of living creatures, while the bookshelves are used to store everything except it’s designated contents. Chaos.

Lindhall sits in an over-stuffed leather desk chair opposite my perch, his eyes rising from his notes to pass me a knowing smirk.

“Arram,” he says, fatherly affection coloring his tone, “That is you, correct?”

Sunstone looks up at Lindhall, in a very un-tortoise-like expression of incredulity but the mage pretends not to notice that the reptile has escaped his habitat again. Not that I expect him to acknowledge an occurrence that seems to happen regularly. Instead, my bird head bows in affirmation and Lindhall parts his lips to ask a follow-up question.

Before he can, a screeching sound echoes through the air. Someone is trying to force their way into Lindhall’s rooms.

“If you will not remain in your terrarium, at least make yourself useful,” Lindhall says, pointing a glare at Sunstone.

The tortoise glares back before beginning his slow trek toward the entry door. Taking up a sentry position, he pulls his limbs into his shell. The door shimmers as the tortoise uses his animalistic magic, taking the form of yellow light, to make the door impenetrable.

“That won’t keep our would-be intruders at bay for long,” Lindhall says.

I purposefully peer at the frosted glass doors behind him and Lindhall knows my plan without my needing to speak. He moves to hold open the door to the small enclosure and I flutter inside. Finding a perch among the branches of a single evergreen tree, I settle down to wait.

The other birds inside the aviary are all species hailing from the northern regions. Most who enter here assume that such birds were merely those easily caught but I know that Lindhall chose the birds with care. This aviary is his small piece of home.

The influx of light from the opening door had woken a flock of brown finches that come to surround me. I am far bigger than they are and, for the first time, I wonder what kind of bird I am.

My introspection doesn’t last as voices seep through the doors.

“Who are you to attempt to enter uninvited?” Lindhall asks, taking on the air of an elitist scholar with all the expertise of a mummer.

“We’re Mage-Hunters under orders from de Emperor hisself,” says a man with the gravelly voice of a veteran and the broguish accent of a Scanran, “We’re lookin’ for de criminal Arram Draper.”

Lindhall scoffs, “What a terrible lie. Ozorne knows that Arram is far too clever to come here, it is too obvious. Besides, how would Arram have escaped the dungeons? Everyone knows the magical dampeners keep even powerful mages from escaping. Now tell me who you really are!”

If I were in a human form, I would have rolled my eyes at my mentor’s double-meaning. He was calling me an idiot. Part of me believes he is not wrong. Coming here thoughtlessly was utterly daft.

“Sir?” says a woman with a voice like wind through a forest, “There is too much magic here. We cannot sense him.”

“Then use yer eyes. If ya depend only on yer gift, you’ll never find those mages smart nuff to hide in plain sight.”

“You won’t find him either way, dolts! He is not here!” exclaims Lindhall.

There is a long silence and I find myself leaning forward to await the sound of confrontation but the aviary door flys open instead. The finches that surround me startle into the air before touching back down onto their perches.

A man enters the room and I intuitively know him as the one with the gravelly voice. He stands as tall as I would have in human form but where I am wiry, he is broad-shouldered and square-jawed. Wheat-colored hair, pulled into a loose bun at the top of his head, might have been a distinguishing feature but it is his left eye that draws my attention. Where there should have been a golden iris to match the right, there was a large ruby. It catches the magelight from the doorway to create a contrasting of blood and shadow in the gem’s fractals.

He scans the room and soon his eyes, both natural and artificial, fall on me. Ruby and gold begin to glow and my feathers ruffle as his gift slides over me. It is powerful enough to rival my own, enough to destroy me. For the first time in a long time, I am petrified. It is the first real emotion I have felt since being imprisoned.

A secretive smile twists his full mouth and he turns on his heel. “The Master’s right, he’s not here. Move out!”

In the Mage-Hunter's wake, I sit in frozen confusion and try to understand what has just happened.

“They are gone.”

Blinking, I realize Lindhall is standing beneath me. I peer at him with my avian eyes and jump from my perch, flapping my wings to slow my descent until I land at his feet. The finches follow me and Lindhall raises an eyebrow at my new companions. “Interesting. I do not think I have ever witnessed animals respond to you in such a way. It is like their tethered. Perhaps, being in an animal form makes your connection to the natural world more potent?”

I open my beak and let out a warning hoot. Lindhall's contemplative hand falls from his fleshy chin and he shakes away his wayward train of thought.

"Right. Perhaps it would be better to save such discussions for when you have returned to your human-shape." Lindhall looks at me expectantly but when I continue my existence as an owl, he frowns. "Is something wrong?"

My only response is to gesture flamboyantly with a wing.

Lindhall's blue eyes glow with magical sight and his jaw falls open, telling me the true depths of my predicament.

I let out a soft noise of question and he blinks. He reaches down to touch a finger to my feathery head and I can instantly see the world as he does.

A coppery light, wild magic, flows from the finches around me and calls to my gift. I have never seen the earthy magic colored in such a way before as it usually appears like an ethereal mist to my eyes. Still, it is something I have come to accept as everything from animals to plants tends to pull at my magic. What's unnatural is that when my shadowy gift attempts to respond, it falls against a wall of swirling green. My gift is trapped within me, just as much a prisoner as I had been.

At that moment, a complete understanding of Varice's serum finally settles on me. My connection to my gift has been severed, the basis of the serum created from the very spell I had taught her as a safeguard. It is a betrayal that only further confuses my already complicated feelings toward her. I cannot understand why she would create such a thing, why she would help Ozorne capture me in the first place, but then I also cannot understand why she would help me escape. Many pieces were missing from the puzzle and I am unsure if the picture will ever become whole.

Grey magic, Lindhall’s gift, envelops me and seeps into the spaces between my feathers. A needling sensation finds my quills sliding back into my skin and my arms twisting back into their typical shape. Soon I am standing before Lindhall, covered in the sands and blood of the arena.

Lindhall grimaces at my state. His gaze falls to the floor as he gestures to toward the exit, “I'm sure you remember where the washing things are. There is also fresh clothing for you in my assistant’s closet.”

Understanding his inability to look upon my appearance, I make my way to the familiar closet where Lindhall’s student-assistants keep their things. It is void of everything but a plain white shirt, rough trousers, and simple ankle boots. As a draper’s son, I know what they are, the clothes of a vagabond. This is my new position in life- a mage without magic.

Pushing the depressing thought aside, I take the garments into the washroom.

The small copper tubs and oh-so-rare piped water are customarily used to bathe rescued animals but they will work just fine for my needs.

After turning on the taps, I stand there for a moment and merely let the strangely warm liquid pour over my fingers. I wonder whether the pleasant temperature is a result of magic or engineering. Knowing Lindhall, it could be either. Such a musing seems ridiculous but that is the point. Empty contemplations are my haven from the blood-drenched memories and from the questions I do not want to answer.

Crimson streaks flow down the drain like grime in a storm, washing away the physical evidence of my shame.

Suddenly I am in a rush to be free from the tarnish. I scrub at my skin until it is raw and tear at my black curls to banish all the sand from the strands. I do not even realize I am no longer alone until Lindhall speaks my name with a combination of confusion and concern. All I can do is stare at the pattern of streams that form across the back of a hand. Clean, it no longer looks like it belongs at the end of my arm.

Lindhall carefully pulls my fingers from the water and my mind goes blank save for the one question I cannot escape.

"Would I be better off if my gift remained caged?"

“Of course not,” Lindhall says carefully as he summons a stack of towels from one of the many cabinets and I drape one over my sodden hair. I start furiously drying it, hiding beneath the heavy cloth as it absorbs the water from the strands.

In my distraction, uninvited memories begin to screech my failures at me.

“I’m not so sure, I seem to be my own worst enemy. By the gods, I even gave Varice the spell to trap my gift. For someone who is supposed to be clever, I tend to remain purposely blind to those I call ‘friend’.”

“Stop.”

My head darts up, dislodging the towel. It falls around my shoulders like a precarious cloak.

Taking a measured step forward, Lindhall sets a gentle hand on my shoulder, “Arram, your friends made their choices. Some of them good, some of them bad. Cleverness is not synonymous with omnipotence.”

“Yes, but at what point does it become apparent that as long as I hold such power, I will never be anything more than a weapon.”

Lindhall averts his gaze, “That is not a question a twenty-year-old should be asking.”

“A twenty-year-old with a black robe should,” I reply simply, "If I find a way to unlock my gift, what is to stop someone else from trying to control it? From using me to unleash devastation onto the world?"

“No, Arram. I refuse to believe that the gods have set you on a path of misery."

My shoulders fall, sending the towel to the floor with a squelch. Words from my memory, born on the wings of self-depreciation, whisper across my consciousness. The warning words of the Graveyard Hag flowing from Master Ramasu’s lips.

"I fear that may be all the Gods have in store for me," I murmur.

Lindhall's eyebrows hit his hairline, "What do you mean?"

I sigh and pull forth the only words that can explain, "Father Universe turns the wheel, bringing forth order and chaos in turn. Raised by the hands of one twice-blessed by Mother Flame and the Goddess, Uusoae will cast the world in darkness."

Grimacing, Lindhall hands me a dry towel, "The Book of Chaos is far too vague to be used as a point of argument. You cannot fear that which you cannot know."

"I suppose you're right," I say but my thoughts crow in rebellion to my words because, while I can not know what games the Gods are playing, I know they have set me on a particular path — one that will be fraught with pain.


	5. A Bird Without Wings

“It’s been a long time, my boy,” says a voice that is familiar but unrecognizable, “Much longer for you than for me.”

I open my eyes and feel a thrill of fear. The sand beneath my bare feet is almost scalding, the air I pull in through my nostrils is thick with the metallic smells of blood and death, and the high walls of the gladiatorial arena rise in a perfect circle to loom around me like a prison.

It is the last place I want to be.

To the north stands the statue of the great god Mithros, the daylight catching on his gilded shield, becoming a manifestation of the sun itself. To the south, a bronze statue is placed as Mithros’ opposite. Where he is middle-aged and covered in thickly corded muscle, the goddess portrayed there is elderly and built like a spindle. She does not wear an authoritarian expression. Instead, she smiles secretively. She has no weapons, only offering the gladiators a set of dice on her outstretched palm. This goddess is not a protector; she is The Graveyard Hag.

“I never liked that statue. You mortals always get my nose wrong.”

I can see what she means as I look at her. Where her nose is hooked, the one on the statue is thin and pointed. More than that, the figure stands straight-backed and robust, while the goddess beside me leans heavily on her ebony walking stick to support her hunched form.

“Why am I here?”

“Because I wanted to speak to you.”

“Yes, but why here?”

She passes me a glare that sends a shiver down my spine, “You know why. Besides, what’s important here is that Ozorne chose the wrong path. He chose hate over his true friends. Now there is nothing I can do to save him from my Uncle’s wrath.”

“What will happen to him?” I ask, a hint of concern in my voice that honestly has no right being there.

The Hag turns to pat my arm, her expression changing from angry to grandmotherly in an instant, “Don’t you worry about that. You’ll find out eventually. All you need to know now is to follow the sparrow.”

“Sparrow?” I ask.

The Hag grins, displaying an array of snaggled teeth, “I can’t say more than that but I’m sure you’ll figure it all out, my clever boy.”

My shoulders fall in defeat, “Obviously not clever enough. Otherwise, Ozorne could still be saved.”

Her walking stick comes across the back of my knee so hard I fall into the sand. Hissing as pain blooms across the limb, I have to grit my teeth to pull myself into a kneeling position. The Hag stands over me, her beady eyes a pair of burning coals.

“Enough of that! All is not lost.”

I freeze, my pain forgotten, “It’s not?”

Again her mood changes like a mummer changing masks, a cheeky knowledge raising the corners of her wrinkled mouth, “You haven’t outlived your usefulness yet and I won’t leave you to the fate Father Universe wants for you.” Raising her chin, she points a defiant smile toward the cloudless blue sky, “Clever boys are my greatest weakness after all.”

Placing the end of her walking stick in the center of my chest, she pushes me backward and I fall into darkness.

I awake to the salt-stained wood of a merchant ship. Around me, the familiar smells of spices bring unwanted memories to the forefront of my mind, each one centered on a young woman with blonde hair and a teasing smile.

Brushing aside the images, I try to sit up and pain shoots through my leg. I frown and gather up the cloth of my roughspun trousers. Painted in blue and purple is a bruise that had not been there before.

That is also when I notice a new weight on my wrist. On a black braided cord is a single die that seems carved from ice but is warm against my skin. On the upward-pointing face are six tiny rubies laid out in two perfect lines. I recognize it immediately as the gift the Graveyard Hag had given me after I had prayed for a gladiator’s life.

The day I became the goddess’ champion.

“Ah, you’re back.” The musical voice, with its vibrating accent, is distinctive but not familiar.

Sunlight pours through the deck above to cut across a thin figure, revealing her in pieces. First I notice her tiny hands, appearing child-like as they expertly peel an apple. Her round eyes flick between her task and me. When they settle on me, their amber depths catch the sunlight and sparkle with innocent wonder. When they drop to the knife, they become cast in the shadows of pain.

“I am Vala,” she tells me with all the cheerful pride of a toddler who wanted congratulations for having learned to introduce themselves properly. “You are Arram Draper. I’ve been expecting you.”

My eyes rove the room, looking for an exit because surely she is a bounty hunter.

“Do not worry. I am a friend of Lindhall’s.”

I frown at her, “Forgive me for not just taking your word on that.”

“I would not want you to,” she says and tucks her peeling knife into a hidden sheath within her belled sleeve and removes a piece of paper. With movements that are so quick as to be nearly imperceptible, she folds the paper into a triangular shape. Pinching the strange kite-like contraption between her thumb and forefinger, she flicks her wrist and the paper sails across the small space like a soaring bird to land in my lap.

Carefully, I pick up the paper and unfold it. Amidst the creases is a note written in Lindhall’s hand. After a few moments, I recognize the simple cipher that swaps every third letter with the first. It’s a technique known in spy circles as the freed slave’s cipher.

The letter starts with assurances that Varice’s imprisonment was short and ends with a plea to trust Vala. He says I will know her by the bird-shaped scar on her left wrist.

I hear metal click against metal and find Vala holding her wrist up in the light. As promised, there is a branded scar in the shape of a flying bird. A sparrow.

“I am to take you to your family's home and watch for a Mage Hunter with a ruby-eye.” A round gold object flashes in the light as she leans forward to emphasize her words, “I told him I would make sure you are safe.”

Bowing my head, I focus on the letter even as the carefully inked letters become blurry, “I hope you didn’t make that oath on pain of death because, if my dream is to be believed, I have a perilous road ahead of me.”

“Which god was it?” she asks me and I wonder what type of magic she has. “I have no magic — only the skill to see what others do not. Now answer the question. Your soul was gone while your body slept. Which god stole you from your dreams?”

I see no point in lying, “The Graveyard Hag.”

Vala nods, “I see. If you belong to the goddess of gamblers, then I see why you are worried but you need not fear for me. I am lucky. Now, come with me. I will take you to your family.”

I follow her through the streets and marvel at how she seems to shift like a humanoid chameleon. One moment she is invisible, blending in among the ordinary people of Tyra, and the next she is almost ostentatious with her skipping steps and bobbing head. Her arms are held slightly out to the side as if she genuinely is a sparrow preparing to take flight.

In her wake, I am a gangly giraffe, a creature so out of place as to almost be exotic. Then she turns down a familiar street and suddenly I am a child again, following the roads home. My feet are moving of their own volition until Vala puts her arm in my path.

“Look,” she tells me and points to the mouth of the alley.

The circle is lopsided.

It is bizarre how that is the first thought that runs through my head. I should be taking note of how the eldest girl looks precisely like Adasa, how the middle boy has sandy hair that must have come from his father, or how the toddler manages to keep pace with his siblings through sheer will alone. Instead, I focus on how the circle they create with their interlocking hands is not perfect.

The children laugh and fall backward into the soft grass of the small garden, unaware that they play at the center of a trap meant to capture the uncle they have never met.

Behind them, the painted brick of the townhouse appears fractured by the nearly invisible magic set at the end of my toes. Like viewing an image through cracked glass, I shift my weight and watch the lines of imperfection shift.

The spell is messy, quickly shattered by a mage worth half his salt. Yet, with my magic caged, I must watch my niece and nephews play from a distance. I wonder if I will ever know their names or if they’ll ever meet the man who had once chased their mother through the sunflower stalks on stumpy legs and cried when she disappeared from view.

Ignoring the clenching of my heart, I melt into the shadows of the alley and curse Ozorne’s cruelty.

“Where are you going?” Vala’s asks in the mocking melody of a nursery rhyme that has no business coming from the lips of such a strange creature while actual children play nearby.

“I can’t put them in danger,” I reply but where the tone was supposed to be clipped and final, it comes out as a pained whisper.

“Shouldn’t that be their choice?”

I clear my throat of emotion before I attempt to dismiss her again, “No, it’s my choice. Just like it’s my choice to go it alone from now on.”

The delicate hand that grips my sleeve is not truly meant to arrest me but I stop nonetheless. Her vast amber eyes seem innocent but they hold the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes. Under her contrasting scrutiny, it is impossible not to become truthsome when she asks, “Why?”

“Because I am a curse to those around me.”

If my confession unnerves her, she doesn’t show it in any aspect of her features. Instead, her face splits into a grin. “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing I’m immune to curses.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes, “That’s ridiculous, how can you be immune to a curse? You said you don’t have the gift.”

“Who needs the gift when I have this?” Vala holds up the die that had been tied to my wrist a moment before.

Scowling at her, I hold out my palm and she unapologetically deposits the goddess’ favor back into my hand. She shrugs and skips ahead of me, looking back over her shoulder with a sweet smile.“I promised Lindhall I would look out for you and I will not break a promise to my savior.”

“Savior?” I ask, making no move to follow her.

She stops and tilts her head in an expression that makes her look like a curious bird, “Didn’t he tell you? Without Lindhall’s help, I would have been buried a long time ago. Imperial pleasure slaves cannot be resold. They can only be kept or killed.”

"I had no idea," I breath but she is unaffected by my shock, chuckling as she moves to lace her fingers through mine.

“Don’t worry. I will make you world-smart. I will keep you safe. Cursed or not.”


	6. The True Value of a Coin

Something soft slides against my ear and I instinctively reach out to catch my assailant. The wrist I capture is copper toned, its frailty hidden beneath a wide leather cuff. The sheath built into the bracer is empty, the small knife usually hidden there long since stashed away.

The muscles beneath my long fingers coil and in a moment I am left with only air in my grasp.

Vala twirls away from me and when she stops, it is to pin me with an impish smile. Between her middle and index fingers, she holds a sizeable double-headed copper coin.

“Damnit! How in the name of Shaketh-”

She chuckles, “It’s easy. I touched your ear and while you were thinking about that, I took the coin.”

“Misdirection,” I say and roll my eyes, “It’s so obvious.”

“Yes, but it won’t work on me,” she teases and makes a show of tucking the coin into her waist belt.

She is underdressed for chilled autumn air but her loosened shirt laces and short skirt is purposeful. Like any other vendor, she has to display her wares to attract those customers not already lured by the tiny gold coin dangling from her left ear.

I could see what others might find attractive about her tiny frame and flawless tan skin but I think her real beauty lies in the eyes that change personalities on a whim. One moment she is watching me with a sparkle of innocent mischief, the next she holds the knowledge of the gods in her amber depths.

“Took me a week to get it back last time,” I grumble as my hands return to the task of sewing yet another pocket under my cloak.

“Practice makes the expert,” she says, her voice pitching into that sing-songy tone, “Also, it is fun to see you fail.”

“For you perhaps.”

She ruffles my shorn hair as she moves past me and shrugs as if to say “who wouldn’t”. Waving toward my work, she asks, “What are you planning now?” before disappearing behind the swath of plain fabric she uses as a dressing screen in the tiny room we share.

I wait for her to reemerge, now wearing an ankle-length linen dress popular in Carthak. It was the same belled-sleeved dress she had worn when we first met and had since become the symbol of her change from Vala the Cunning to Vala the Mentor.

“More knives. I think if I can raise the number to five. I’ve noticed that shock value directly correlates to an increase in the amount of coin I earn.”

One moment she is across the room and the next Vala is lifting my chin. Even sitting on the floor, I barely have to raise my head to find her gaze, “Just be careful, Arram. My promise included all of your fingers as well.”

I mimic boredom, “Aren’t you the one always telling ME not to worry?”

Vala smiles, “Yes, but Lindhall warned me that you have a problem with knowing your limits. I do not have such a flaw.”

“Your flaw is false ego,” I tell her but my smirk belies the insult.

“I do not know what you mean,” she says, arrogantly brushing an oiled lock of thick black hair off her shoulder. “I AM perfect.”

I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me and that is when I realize this is the first time I have laughed since Carthak.

In the six months I have spent in this tiny room with this woman, whose actual age I still cannot determine, my troubles have become distant and I wonder if I might find happiness one day. A future worth planning for beyond tomorrow’s performance and next week’s meal.

“One day you will,” she tells me with casual indifference as she settles into a tailor’s seat beside me. “One day you will be able to forget all about Ozorne and his games.”

“What makes you so sure?”

She shrugs, “I am not sure but I hope. You deserve to be in the sun again.”

“And what about you? Don’t you deserve to be happy?”

Her eyes cut toward me, silently mocking me for my poorly concealed attempt to save her from my shadow, “I am happy.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, a note of iron in my voice.

Vala tries to smile at me but the light of the expression is lost in the void of her ancient eyes, “This is where I belong, Arram. In the shadows, no one can see the scars.”

My shoulders hunch forward, “Then maybe I belong in the shadows too. Gods know I have never been very good at concealing my weaknesses.”

“You shouldn’t hide them,” she touches my cheek and I fall into that undeniable vacuum that is both infectious and dangerous. Then her vision becomes distant, clouded by a swirling silver light that completely obscures her natural amber, and her hand falls away. “One day you’ll find someone who loves your flaws.” The words are spoken like a spell, the cadence adding energy that makes my scalp tingle.

Blinking and tilting her head, she affects an air of avian gullibility, “I like that you are not perfect. It makes you honest.”

Shaking the residual buzz from my mind, I ask, “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That magic. I saw it. I felt it.”

Vala shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The problem is, she does know exactly what I speak of and that frightens her. It is not a feeling I can see in her expression but I can taste it on my tongue. It’s like drinking vinegar.

Trying to set her at ease, I hold out my open palm and reveal the double-sided coin.

“How?” she asks, genuinely stupified by the coin’s appearance.

I make a show of hiding the round piece of warm metal in the lacings on my wrist, “Does it matter?”

Grinning, she shakes her head, “No, it doesn’t.”

“Exactly,” I say and stand, “If you need me I’ll be on the Washer’s street.”

“Have fun, my fool.”

“Don’t I always?”

Outside the apartment a feeling of guilt washes over me, bringing a tingling sensation to my fingertips. I don't know why I feel the need to pretend my magic is not seeping through its confines but I do and that makes me a liar.

***

Steel flashes in the dim winter sun. The air fills with murmurs as I steadily send the blades higher with fluid motions but the danger inherent each time the knives fall under gravity’s control causes a gasp to whisper through the crowd.

Then, when the crowd begins to believe I am nothing more than a simple player, I spark the blades against a hidden flint in my sleeve — the oiled metal bursting into flame and adding a new dimension to the danger. Women and children cry out involuntarily as I continue without effort or care.

The sound of their fear brings an arrogant twist to my lips.

Covered in grime and dressed in roughspun clothes, I could easily blend into the streets where vendors of every kind yell out the quality their wares and artisans use hammer and anvil to mold metal into a livelihood. My thin arms cannot do the work of a craftsman, my straight back and shoulders unmarked by the hard labor of a merchant or farmer. Without the gift of magic, I am just a simple man sustaining on the love of the crowd.

And love me they do, crying out when all three knives stop in the air to hang above my head. I look up at the blades poised to strike me down with mocking annoyance as if their failure to obey gravity was a type of rebellion although they were held there by fishing wire and hooks.

“Get back down here,” I scold.

They fall but, just before they would kill me, I catch them with nimble fingers and hold the extinguished tools out for inspection.

The crowd laughs joyously, relieved that their beloved entertainer is unharmed. At their applause, I bow gracefully and formally, as if those around me were of the highest nobility.

In the most glorious show of their favor, the people take hard-won coins from their belt purses and drop them into the poorly made wooden box at my feet. They clattered louder than the applause, ringing my success through the streets.

Slowly the crowd moves on to continue the toil of their lives, the burdens that weigh down their shoulders just a little lighter.

“Dat was a good trick.”

The autocratic joy drains from my face, my limbs stiffening instantly as a man emerges from among the crowd. At first glance, I know him for a gangster. The vest he wears is burgundy leather, poorly stitched and bearing the crudely branded mark of three wyverns twisted around a poppy bloom.

I make a show of stowing the knives in my ratty cloak. Pointing my palms at him, I step back from the box.

With a snide smile, he kicks over the box and spills the coppers across the dark cobbled stones. Typically, the men of the Flying Snakes ignored me as long as I didn’t fight their “taxes” but this was different. This man steps toward me, greed in his chocolate eyes. Pulling a wrinkled piece of parchment from his belt, he opens it and holds it before my nose.

The naive face that had once looked at me from the mirror and the long curls I had long since abandoned, stares back at me from the page. Rendered in inky lines, the image manages to capture the man I used to be perfectly.

I sigh in defeat. What are a few coppers compared to a thousand gold Thakis?

With a movement so quick as to be imperceptible, I drop two glass orbs from my pockets. When they break across the ground, black smoke rises to obscure me from view.

In the confusion, I melt into the passing crowd like ice into a glass of water.

When I glance back, the gangster is searching the area with disbelieving eyes.

Somewhere nearby, a mirthful giggle rises above the murmurs of the crowd and Vala slips into step beside me. As she loops her thin arm through mine, I automatically halve my gait so that she can remain beside me without the need to jog.

“We cannot stay if the Flying Snakes know you. Don’t worry though. I have a friend who can help get us out of Tyra.”

“Us? When are you going to give up and leave me to my own devices?” I ask, hiding the fear in my words behind a jester’s mask.

“When you are smart enough not to get noticed by idiot gangsters.”

“So never?”

Vala laughs, “Probably.”

She takes me to the edge of the city where whimsical tents and painted wagons in a variety of colors are randomly scattered across terrain deemed too unstable for development, creating the veritable town of frivolity known as the Charlatan’s Port.

Like experts in precognition, we dodge tumblers, animals, and fancifully dressed jesters with ease until we reach a particular painted wagon. It only seems noteworthy due to the forest scene depicted on its lacquered sides rather than the gaudy patterns so many others had.

On light feet, Vala bounces up the steps and knocks on the door.

When it opens, a young boy of no more than ten stands in the threshold. A wide grin splits across his face, revealing gapped teeth where new ones would soon grow.

As nimble as a rope walker, the boy flies through the air to wrap his thin arms around Vala’s neck. He is only a head shorter than her, a combination of his atypical height and her equally atypical lack thereof. In fact, the boy could be her exact opposite, his hair fair and his skin pale while hers is dark.

A side of Vala I have never seen rises to the surface as she crushes the boy in a hug. If I’m not mistaken, it’s honest joy.

“Ask of ghosts and bring the wrath of the Black God for they will cross the barriers to answer,” comes a baritone from deep within the wagon.

“What do you know of ghosts!” Vala calls in her mocking and musical tone.

A man, who is obviously the boy's father, emerges. His entire demeanor is a grin, from his relaxed posture to his glittering blue eyes. “Far more than you would, my dear, for what are ghost stories but facts masquerading as fancy?”

“A means of escape.” The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them but the man only chuckles joyously.

“What is there to escape from?”

“Gangsters and Emperors,” Vala says with all the dignity one might afford a discussion on the changing of the season.

“Ah, I see,” says the man, stepping down from the wagon and offering his hand to me, “I am Callum.”

“Arram,” I reply, shaking his hand firmly.

“Not anymore,” Vala says as she sets the boy on his feet. He hugs her around the middle, clinging to her as if he is afraid she will disappear.

I frown at her declaration, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Callum gestures dramatically, his fingers dancing across my vision as if to mesmerize me, “What is a name but a leash to the past? To escape, you must learn to let it go.”

Nothing about this seems right. I’ve barely met this man and already he is trying to take my name from me and I have no more information than I did when Vala found me in the city. “What? Right now? What am to do? Pull a new name from a bag?”

“I don’t know about a bag but-” Callum reaches up to my ear, flicking his fingers against the cartilage before pulling down what appears to be a piece of parchment. With a player’s frown, he unfolds it and holds it up before my nose. “I pulled this one from your mind.”

The small scrap has a neatly, if not fancifully, written name on it. Numair Salmalin.

“That is an impressive trick,” I tell him with a bored expression, “but there is no way I would choose such a strange name for myself. It sounds like something from some Tusanian play.”

“Exactly,” he replies with a grin, “The best names to hide behind are the ones you wouldn’t choose for yourself.”

Vala’s hand on my arm erases the scowl from my face, “Don’t you trust me, Arram?”

“Arram does but does Numair?” I ask with a sigh.

“I think you’ll find that Numair is a very trusting man,” says Callum and waves us toward the center of the circled wagons of which his is only a piece.

It is within this circle I am introduced to a world I had only waded in — the world of players.


	7. Blood and Bond

Callum takes us to a fire near the center of the circle where people from all walks of life are gathered. They appear more like a family than anything, snuggling together under blankets and smiling easily at each other. When the boy leaves Vala’s side to join them, he is quickly adopted into their ranks.

An older woman with large hoops stretching her earlobes hands him a roughspun blanket of thick wool. Her dark skin bares deep lines around her mouth and eyes, marking her with laughter without the accompaniment of a smile. At her back, a pony lays in support. They almost seem like two parts of the same whole, reminding me of the K'miri accounts of those known as the "horse hearted".

“Come sit with me!” the boy calls to Vala who immediately obliges, settling down beside the fire and allowing him to burrow into her side once more.

I’m barely afforded a moment to wonder at their strange behavior before the older woman calls out, “Vala! Where you been?”

She shrugs, a natural gesture that seems so out-of-character for my strange friend as to be noteworthy, “Around.”

“Getting into trouble!” says a man with the lilt and coloring of a Yamani. His voice is far more expressive than his face but there is an unmistakable light in his almond-shaped eyes that seem to smile at Vala.

“What do ya mean, Rian?” asks the boy, his wide eyes innocent but his smile devious. Something about it is familiar, unnervingly so.

“You know what I mean. If the lady is not here, she is getting into trouble.”

A woman with a white snake twining around her neck and scally tattoos across every inch of visible skin rolls her eyes, “Keep telling poor Evin stories and you’ll sleep with the hounds!”

Rian puts on the appearance of a downtrodden man, exaggerated by his loose jowls, “Yes, yes, what else is new!”

Everyone laughs.

“Who is your friend, nestling?” asks the older woman.

Callum steps up to grab a clay jug from Rian and takes a swig, “This is Numair. He’ll be coming with us to Tortall.”

“Another stray?” asks the woman with the snake. It isn’t said coldly; it is merely an innocent question.

“No, he’s going to earn his keep. He’s a juggler.”

“You’ll need a new name,” the old woman tells me, “You don’t look Tusainian.”

“Exactly. It’s a stage name and what better name for a scholarly juggler than the name of a trickster?”

Vala rolls her eyes affectionately in Callum’s direction, “I knew that name was from one of your stories.”

I furrow my brow at her but Callum soon explains, his tone dropping to the careful cadence of a storyteller as he settles in beside Vala.

“Are you saying you don't remember the tale of the clever vizier Salmalin? A man who served a great Emperor with all the love and faith of a brother?”

Everyone becomes enraptured as he continues but I can’t help the frown that twists my lips. Exactly how much did this man know about me?

“The Emperor had a son, a young boy who was arrogant and cruel but the Emperor loved him despite his flaws. So, when it came time for the Emperor to name an heir, instead of naming a member of the noble council as tradition dictated, he named his son. The lords were outraged and went to the vizier to demand he change the Emperor’s mind. Salmalin agreed that the boy would not make a good Emperor but he would not betray his honor. Touched by greed and feeling slighted, the nobles went to a man known as Numair. This man was trickster-touched and as clever as they come. He promised the nobles that he would help them and they introduced him to the Emperor as a juggler, meant to entertain him. Salmalin was suspicious of the juggler. He could see the amber aura of trickster magic that surrounded Numair and-”

My legs carried me away without purpose, looking for an escape as I begin to recognize the story. Through base manipulation, the trickster-touched juggler made the vizier kill his beloved Emperor. The vizier ascended the throne and had all the nobles executed for treason. After the vizier-turned-emperor died without naming an heir, the empire became a democracy. That country was now known as Tusaine.

“Arram?” Vala’s soft voice stops me in my tracks, “What’s wrong?”

“Who are these people?” I sneer, my anger standing in for the pain that tightens around my heart.

“My family,” It sounds like an involuntary confession though I don’t understand why.

“Family?”

“Callum was the first man to really love me and Evin is the son I gifted to him, though the boy doesn’t know it. And he never will.”

I spin in a mingling of shock, confusion, and understanding, “Your son? You’re putting him in danger! I can’t stay!”

She steps forward, reaching up to cup my cheek affectionately, like a child in need of comfort. It is a motherly gesture that doesn’t fit with the picture in my mind of the little sparrow who had flitted into my life and settled on my shoulder like a pet. “Trust me, Arram. Everything will work out in the end.”

I gesture behind her, “Like how everything worked out for the Vizer Salmalin?”

Shaking her head, she smiles, “No, you have a different path. I can see it.”

“How?”

“I just do. Don’t you believe me?”

I sigh in defeat, “Despite my better judgment, yes.”

“Then come with me,” she says, holding out her tiny hand to me. I take it, enveloping it entirely within my willowy fingers.

Vala leads me back to the fire before leaving me to take her place between Evin and Callum once more. As if it belongs there, the man’s thin arm drapes around her shoulders. It’s familiar, familial, and it ignites something close to envy in my stomach. Not because it is Vala he is touching but because they seem so at home. How long had it been since I had felt such freely given love?

Like a blade sliding between my ribs, I remember Varice’s fingers sliding through my hair as a sunbird sings a bittersweet song of goodbye.

“Mister Numair! Do you know any stories?” I blink out of my memory and find Vala’s son watching me. I don’t know how it had taken so long for me to notice the similarities between them. He has the same mischievous grin and sharp intelligence as his mother.

“He knows many,” says Vala, her smile contrasting sharply with her overtly observant gaze as she gestures dismissively at me, “but not any we would like. He only knows boring things like dry pages and too-long words.”

“A man after my own heart!” proclaimed Callum and he waved toward the newly emptied space between the elderly woman and the Benjiku snake tamer. The elderly woman smiles at me and I know it for an invitation into their strange little family.

I hesitate, unsure about stepping into this world that feels alien to me. I don’t belong there.

“Don’t just stand there, the boy asked for a story,” said Rian, his voice vibrating with unintentional laughter even as his face remains impassive.

My feet move without my permission and I fold into a tailor’s seat among them. All eyes turn to me in anticipation and I know just the story to tell.

“In the Divine Realms, there is a great tree where Mithros’ Sunbirds nest. Beneath this tree is a pond known to the residents as the Seeking Waters. On the lowest branch of the tree, a pair of Sunbirds built their nest. As prideful parents, they hoped their fledgling daughter would one day join them in the daily worship of the great god of sunlight. They would point toward the sky, urging her to watch their brethren spin into the atmosphere, but the nestling had little interest in the show of dazzling light catching mirror-like feathers. She was intrigued by the Seeking Waters. She would watch the images that sped across the liquid surface and dream of knowing the mortals that lived full lives in one divine day. Her parents admonished her, demanding that she forget the lowly mortals and their complex troubles.

“She felt alone, the only sunbird that looked to the ground rather than the sky. Then, one day, she saw a boy, a student mage, who walked along the bottom of the Zekoi River alongside the crocodile god Enzi. In his eyes, she could see the same loneliness, the kind that came from being surrounded by people who could never understand her insatiable curiosity. Driven by the need to meet this kindred spirit, she hatched a plan. You see, Enzi would often visit the sunbird’s tree...”

“...but the boy knew he could not keep her. If he truly loved her, he had to let her go back to the parents that missed her. He spoke a word, a word forbidden to a student, and opened a hole between the realms...”

As Callum’s voice dropped to a melancholy tone, Rian and Vala stepped onto the stage.

From her lips, the pain of a lifetime emerges as a siren's song. There are no lyrics, only the soft tones of anguish that add a new dimension to the end of the story.

Rian joins her, and together they create the type of magic found only in temples. The flute he plays is a Yamni bamboo instrument capable of haunting sounds but it is more than that, it is like he is filling the air with the story’s final image painted in musical notes.

“...Just as the sunbird would have disappeared into the divine sky, she rose. In the spiraling pattern of her brethren, she caught the evening sunlight on her feathers. The wondrous display wasn’t meant for Mithros; it was a salute to the boy who had loved a bird.”

“It’s pretty- and sad,” says a voice from my right, pulling me out of the magic and back into my head. I look down to find Evin standing beside me at the back of the crowd, staring through a gap in the bodies to watch the scene with eyes that had no place in such a young face. His cheeks are painted fancifully in a pattern of black and white diamonds that mark him as a fellow player but cannot detract from the expressiveness of his chubby cheeks.

“It’s just a story,” I tell him with an empty voice.

“That’s what you told Da but I don’t believe it. It’s a true memory,” Evin smiles up at me, “Don’t worry though, I won’t tell anyone.”

He takes my hand and turns his attention back to the stage just as Vala steps forward on light feet. Her diaphanous dress floats around her like settling feathers. Eyes that can change my perspective in an instant become jewels with visible fractals that capture mine. The notes of her song shift subtly, becoming drawn out words that create a new story with a far sadder ending.

It is a story of pain masquerading as beauty, of a lonely girl who rose from a trainee in the famous pleasure houses of the Yamani Islands to fall in love with an Emperor even though he would never love her in return. She enchants her audience by way of rises and falls, her voice bringing to life the action as the girl runs from an executioner with the help of a scholar.

“I'm not sure this one is true though,” says Evin, his child’s voice standing opposite the song and yet matching it at the same time.

“Well she believes it,” I tell him and wonder how I could ever follow such an emotional show.

Callum claps me on the shoulder even though I had never seen him leave the stage, “Evin, aren’t you supposed to be sending the collection bowl around?”

The boy looks up at me impishly and disappears into the crowd. He blends into the masses as easily as his mother had the streets of Tyra.

"You'll do fine."

Letting go of my doubts with a deep inhale, I step onto the stage.

The music speeds up and Vala’s ghostly notes become lilting as I send wooden balls into the air. Rian switches flutes, pulling a piccolo from the ether.

I tell the tale of the vizier and the juggling trickster but I turn it into a comedy with a happy ending. In my version, the trickster and the vizier join forces to save the Emperor from the traitorous nobles and the ruler sees the error of his ways, voluntarily naming his loyal servant as his heir in the hopes that it will usher in a new age of democracy.

It is a fantasy, one in which I find the answer to a question I never knew had echoed in the back of my mind. What if?

Still, the sadness flees both my heart and the crowd who laugh as I purposely fumble the balls just as the jester tries and fails to trick the vizier into betraying his ruler.

Jarra, the Banjiku snake dancer, picks up the end of my tale and I fade into the background. With sensual movements, she turns the story into one of a snake who was tricked by the kindness of a mouse into viewing things differently. The moral? We all belong to the same world and that one altruistic act could change someone's fate.

The show ends with all of us on the stage, timing our movements to the quick beat of a folk song as Callum thanks the crowd for their patronage.

The audience erupts into a venerative roar and each performer takes the hand of the one beside them. We all bow as one.

The night of my first performance ends around the fire but the warmth in my chest isn’t from a performance well-done. It comes when all eyes turn to me and smile.

“I think you are a born player,” says Jarra with a grin, petting the head of her albino python.

“Yes,” agrees her husband as he meticulously cleans his flutes.

The elderly woman, Onua, looks up from kneading dough and nods, “You did good, dear.”

“Yes, yes!” says Callum in his dramatic way, “I think he’s one of us! What do you say, family?”

“Yeah!” says Evin excitedly but Vala calms him with a gentle hand.

Her gaze meets mine and I see the first genuine smile she has ever given me, “What do you say, Numair? Will you stay with us?”

I feel like I’ve stepped into a new skin. In a moment, I become the man I think I was supposed to be all along — not a great mage with a black robe but just another part of the ever-turning world. Vala becomes much the same. She is no longer a divine bird sent to lead me down destiny’s path. She is just my friend, a sibling on the family tree of heart-wrenching pasts.

A buzzing beneath my skin alerts me to the rise of emotion and, fisting my hands in my lap, I push my magic back and bow my head in acceptance, “As long as I can.”

“Forever then,” says Vala with an affirmative fist into her palm.

“There is no such thing as forever, my dear,” says Callum but he doesn’t speak out of sadness, it is merely a fact. A fact that makes my stomach twist. “Everything eventually meets its end. Even family.”


	8. What Is A Name?

Each performance is followed by a few days of travel.

It is during this time in between that I learn the most about my mysterious sparrow. The mask of innocence disappears when she laughs at Rian’s stoic jokes, her scars become invisible as she cooks soup alongside the elderly Onua, and she transforms into the motherly goddess herself as she plays chasing games with Evin.

It is a steady rhythm that makes me feel like I am finally free of my past.

When we pass the border into Tortall, Callum decides we should have a day to enjoy the death notes of autumn but it is truly a chance to gather supplies before the snows force us to bunker down in some city where we will have to sustain off the few coins earned on the streets.

Vala quickly apprehends me, pulling me into the city where vendors of every type are selling their wares at heavy discounts so that they don’t end up with a winter backstock. Evin remains by her side, skipping along with her through the crowd.

Their joy is infectious and I find myself playing the fool, taking their natural lightness into my heart until I have no care left in the world.

I’m not paying attention to the eyes that follow me through the city. I don’t see the licking of lips and the flash of steel. All I see is the light in my life. I don’t look at the shadows.

Not until they descend on me like a flock of crows.

Hands arrest my arms and unbalance me, pulling me into the alley where only evil lives. The blade presses to my throat and bright eyes meet mine with hunger. There is a cold heat coming off the dagger and I can feel the spell that sheathes the steel. Even if I could cast one, no magical shield will save me from its wrath.

“You are a tricky one. I don’t know how you’ve been able to hide this long but we’ve gotcha now.”

I glare down at the men who hold me and recognize the charms that peak from under their shirts. The runes mark them as part of a gang, the infamous mage hunters that would send me back to the Emperor for the sake of gold.

“Watch him, he’s supposed to be fair powerful,” says a voice from the shadows. Her tone picks at my memory but when she emerges from the shadows, I don’t recognize her face. I would remember a face like hers. She has the pale coloring of a northerner but her blue eyes are so sickeningly icy that I instinctively know her to be evil incarnate. She invades my space to sniff me exaggeratedly. “Gods, you can smell the power on him. Dusty was right. It’s a damn miracle we’ve not found you before now.”

She quickly turns to the second man that holds me, a handsome man who seems less greedy than his comrades, “Go get the two he was with, we can use ‘em.”

“No,” I say forcefully, “I’ll go with you but leave them out of it.”

The woman smiles and opens her mouth to speak but she doesn’t get the chance to unleash the acid that lies on the tip of her tongue.

“You are making a mistake.”

I turn my head to see Vala, backlit by the bustle of the street. The spelled dagger cuts into my skin, a trail of blood dripping down into the collar of my shirt, but I can’t feel the pain. All I know is that the person I had discovered amongst the players is gone and my dark sparrow has returned with a vengeance. Her amber eyes flash and I can see the power in them. When she speaks again, a thousand disembodied voices join hers in a ghostly chorus, “Back away.”

The men’s eyes widen in fear but they do so immediately.

I nearly collapse as the dagger leaves me, pressing my hand to the wound on my neck. Luckily it is only a small cut, as if I'd merely nicked myself shaving.

Only the evil woman remains in place but there is a spark of glee in her expression. “It’s you,” she hisses like a laughing snake.

“Tell your master that this one belongs to the Master of Sparrows and if he wants him, you will have to fight me for him.”

“It would be my pleasure,” the evil woman says and waves her hand. Pink light surrounds her, forming a strong barrier around her body like a second skin. She sends out a powerful blast and will my magic to finally manifest, to shield Vala from utter obliteration but it never leaves the confines of my skin.

The magic evaporates, pulled into me like a fire consuming oxygen. The evil woman gapes at me for a heartbeat before slamming me against the wall, her forearm across my throat. “How did you do that!”

Vala laughs but the sound is hollow, filled with darkness, “Ask your master. After all, he was hoping you would die. That my friend here would destroy you.”

“You’re lying!”

Gesturing idly, Vala replies, “Go ask him. It’s either that or I send him your tongue in a box and let that do your talking.”

Glaring between Vala and I, the evil woman sneers, “No one escapes Inar. He’ll find you again and when that happens, you’ll be lucky if all he does is collect the bounties on your heads.”

Again, Vala speaks in that frightening voice, “Run, Huntress Cora, while you still can.”

The woman curses and seems to be trying to fight her own feet as they propel her around and toward the alley’s exit.

“You too,” Vala tells the men and they hasten away.

Once they have disappeared, Vala smiles at me a moment before her eyes roll back in her head. I manage to catch her before she hits the ground.

“THIS WAY!” I hear Evin call just before he appears in the mouth of the alley. His eyes are over-large and fierce as they take in the scene. Behind him, the entirety of our player band skids to a stop.

“Where did they go?” Evin asks but it sounds more like a command than a question.

Callum sheaths a pair of knives in his belled sleeves and places a soothing hand on his son’s shoulder, “It doesn’t matter, my son.”

Stepping past the boy, he comes to stand before me with his arms outstretched. I set Vala’s light body into his arms and he cradles her close as if she is made of glass.

“I think she just exhausted herself,” I say but my voice cracks with fear. I can feel the power radiating from her. If it doesn't stop, she'll burn out like a candle left lit too long.

“It isn’t the first time she has done that,” he tells me, and turns toward Evin. The boy reaches up to take her hand and the magic immediately seeps from the air. The boy has no gift but it is as if the contact tamed Vala's magic. Nodding in thanks to his son, Callum turns to walk back onto the streets.

I make no move to follow and Jarra stops when she notices my rooted feet.

“Come, Numair. It isn’t safe.”

She moves to take my hand but quickly snatches it away when the magic that dances under my skin begins pulling at hers. My fingers curl into fists as I try to stamp down the power that flows through me but it will not obey any longer. It's like a caged beast, pacing as it waits to unleash chaos onto the world.

“It’ll never be safe,” I tell her quietly, “Not as long as I'm around.”

“No,” she replies softly, “but you will learn. Come.”

Around the fire that night, I hear the truth about my new family.

Rian was once known as Akihiro, a flutist for the Yamani Emperor who had fallen in love with Jarra when her Banjiku tribe had performed for the royal family. When her snake was falsely blamed for the death of a princess, he had helped her escape and named a traitor for the trouble.

Onua had been married to a Tusainian horse merchant and spy in service to Tyra. When his cover was torn away by a vindictive fellow spy, her husband had sold her and their daughter into slavery to flee the country. Onua had tried to find her child after escaping only to learn the girl's Copper Islander master had killed her. Onua had slit the master’s throat in his sleep.

Callum had been born to farmers and ran away from a mundane life only to end up as a cutthroat in the service to the Rogue, the head of all crime in Corrus. He had once gone by the moniker The Poet but he found his talent for drama could serve a far better purpose. He became a spy.

They were all spies in service to Tortall.

“Where does Vala fit into all this?” I ask, my tone purposely academic even as my traitorous eyes flick toward the wagon where she is resting with Evin curled into her side.

Callum gestures at my question as if it is of little consequence, “She serves no country, she is a sparrow who only sings the songs she wants to.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“You do not know?” asks Rian, his eyes turning an accusation on Callum.

Sighing, Callum passes me an apologetic expression, “We want you to come to Corrus. With your power, you could be a great asset to the kingdom. You could also be safe there. The Emperor wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“I should have known," I hiss, "You were waiting to see if my magic would come back. Fortunately for you, it remains trapped.”

Standing, I walk toward the shadows of the forest, preferring them to the light.

“Where are you going?” Jarra asks.

I stop but don’t turn, “Away.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Where else would I go?”

“You have a choice.”

I finally turn at the soft voice and find Vala stepping out of the wagon. Evin helps her stay upright even as his quivering lip betrays his concern.

“Do I? It seems to me that you’ve been making all my decisions for me.”

Vala freezes, her eyes dull as they stare at me, “Only to keep you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe,” I tell her coldly and raise my hand. The power beneath my skin begins to draw on the air, leaving the others to grip their chests as my gift siphons some of the magic from the area. Jarra’s python is the most heavily affected, flattening itself on the ground as if it could disappear into the crust of the earth. “Even with my gift still trapped, I could send the world into chaos if I wanted.”

“But that’s not what you want,” Vala says, her gaze steady upon me and softer than I deserve.

“No,” I admit, “what I want is to be free.”

“No one is truly free,” says Callum, appearing at Vala’s side like a sentinel. When he speaks again, his focus is on Vala and his voice is touched with sadness, “We all have our cages.”

“And some are better than others, right?”

Without waiting for an answer, I disappear into the darkness. After all, that is where I belong.

I settle amongst the trees, draped in silence as even the birds are afraid of the power that I wear like armor against the world. The ethereal white mist, the natural world, calls out to my magic like an old friend but my gift snuffs out even that light.

“Tis beautiful,” says a voice from deeper within the foliage. I know this voice, and its accompanying ruby glows from within the darkness, showing me the face of my hunter cast in a bloody light.

“You had better kill me because I won’t let you take me back to Ozorne alive.”

“Ozorne is a dolt. I want ya ta join me. Together we could take de world. We could be free.”

I remain silent and Inar smiles, “Don’t say now. Think on it.”

“And if I decide that I don’t want your type of freedom?” I ask.

“Then I look forward to testing my power against yours, Black Mage.”

“That’s not who I am.”

He only laughs, “Ya don’t know who ye are but I know who ya could be.”

The ruby light dies and I am finally alone with my thoughts but they can only repeat Inar’s words back to me. Arram- the boy who had foolishly trusted a prince. Numair- the joyful player who had no magic and no cares beyond the next show. The Black Mage- the powerful sorcerer with a penchant for theatrics. They are all just names and none of them seem to fit.

Who am I?

“I believe you are her soulmate,” Callum says, appearing beside me as if he had sprung from the ground, “That’s why you’ve come back, right? Because of Vala?”

I stand at the edge of the forest, concealed from the soft autumn sunlight by the shadows of the trees.

In the field, Vala dances with Evin and Jarra through the tall grasses while Rian flutes a playful tune. It is peaceful, reveling in the happiness of those I had come to love. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want my reemergence to color it black.

“I think you’ve started believing your own stories. I don’t feel that way about her.”

He chuckles at my falsely stoic voice. “Not like that, my friend. First, because I would never allow it, second, because you look at her like one would look at a little sister. I know most storytellers use soulmates to refer to lovers but there are many different kinds of soulmates.”

I still look skeptical, so he points toward the man who sits on the steps of the wagon. Her snake slithers around him in much the same fashion as it’s tamer, never tightening its hold but seeking warmth.

“Banjiku magic is based on the concept of soulmates. Mookie and Jarra are connected, soul to soul, but the snake treats Rian the same way. That is because Rian and Jarra are tied by the heartstrings. Sometimes animals know more than we do.”

“That sounds very fantastic. Besides, Vala says she doesn’t have any magic. Banjiku or otherwise.”

“You think that she is charming because of how she looks and speaks? You know as well as I do that it’s magic. But she can’t control it. She’s as much a slave to it as you are to yours.”

I turn to him with a frown, “Why are you telling me all this? I may not have known you long but I am not foolish enough to believe you do anything without reason.”

He claps me on the shoulder but I shrug the friendly gesture away. Callum acts as if it doesn’t matter, “You’re a clever young man but I have to say that you’re wrong. I fell in love with her without reason. Then again, reason doesn’t belong among such selfless emotions.”

“Stop dancing around it, Cal, and speak plain.”

His head falls forward in half-apology and half-admittance, “I’ll admit that I wanted you to come with us to Tortall to serve my king but now I want you to help her.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, “And how do you expect me to do that?”

Crossing his arms flamboyantly, he gives me a bored expression, “You were a teacher and from what I hear, you were a fairly good one.”

“And where did you hear that?”

“Lindhall Reed is as much my friend as he is Vala’s.”

One of these days I was going to have a very long discussion with my old mentor and he was going to explain just how much influence he had affected over my life.

“Don’t look so sour. He cares about you and wants you to be happy.”

“And he thinks that I’ll be happy becoming a teacher again?”

“Did you ever really stop?” he asks me rhetorically, “You never stopped being a scholar. Vala told me of how quickly you learned to hide in the city. You might have left the university but your curiosity never died.”

I sneered, “Curiosity and cleverness are what made me a Carthaki traitor.”

“No, blindness is what found you in the palace prisons but we all make mistakes. What matters is how you live with them.”

A laugh draws our attention back to the field of games. Vala holds Evin around the middle, tickling him until he is breathless.

“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for her and those who love her. Yesterday she could have killed herself. You know it as much as I do.”

Watching her, I feel the warmth return. The warmth I feel whenever I see her happy. “Fine. I’ll try but I can’t make any promises.”

Callum bows to me as if I am royalty, “That is all I can ask, Master Mage.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Straightening, he smiles at me, “As you wish but that doesn’t change who you are. We might have gifted you a new name but you’ll always be the curious boy who earned the love a sunbird.”


	9. The Story of the Pretty Bird

I remain on the edges of the camp until it comes time for everyone to gather around the fire. Floating into the peace like a spirit, I step into Vala’s path. She smiles at me as if nothing has happened between us.

“May we speak?” I ask her and she bobs her head in that avian way that I’m starting to believe is just another practiced persona. One she only puts on for me.

I lead her to the field and, when I stop, she takes a tailors seat among the grass, letting it envelop her. When I don’t follow suit, she rolls her eyes.

“Sit, my fool. You are too tall to look up at.”

Sighing, I take a seat across from her, resting my elbows on my updrawn knees and clasping my hands in front of me.

“Good, now talk.”

“I want to make a deal.”

“I don’t like deals. Tricksters use deals.”

“An exchange then. I want you to tell me the truth, from now until we part ways, and in return, I will teach you about your magic.”

“I have no-”

Her vehement reply is cut off when I narrow my eyes and hold out my hand. Black fire gathers beneath the skin of my palm, lending an ultraviolet light to the area that makes her glow with power. My gift hungers to consume her magic, whispering to me that I could be free if only I had her ability. It is enough to make me grit my teeth and clench my hands into fists. “I think we are past the lies, Vala.”

She smirks at me, “Alright. Then let me tell you the truth. After that, I will let you teach me how to control my magic.”

I frown at her insinuation, as if teaching would be a treat for me, but she continues as if I agreed, “My name is not Vala. Like Numair, it was a name that was given to me. I think you know what it means.”

“Old Thaki, it means bird.”

She nods, “Ozorne gave it to me.”

Blinking, I feel my heart start to pound against my ribs in a rush of fear.

“My real name cannot be translated into the common tongue but I do have a common name. You gave it to me when I was still a downy nestling with more curiosity than sense.”

My throat tightens and for a moment I want to believe it is just a story. After all, there is no way it can be true. Then I look into her eyes, those eyes that I can become lost in without realizing — the eyes of a bird.

“Preet,” I breath and she relishes the sound.

“It is has been so long since I’ve known that name. When I went back to the divine realms, my family couldn't understand why I would want to be called such a name. I was too different from the other sunbirds, I thought too much like a mortal and I missed my curious human who transformed into a hawk to teach me how to fly.”

I find myself smiling at the memory and for a moment I can almost feel the wind beneath my feathers as Preet and I chase currents across the Carthaki skyline. But I am not a bird and neither is she.

“But- how are you-?”

Her grin is conspiratorial, “How am I human? The Graveyard Hag came to the tree and offered me a deal. She made me human but I have to live in the mortal realm, a sunbird trapped in human flesh for eternity. She showed me an image of you in the waters and I knew I couldn’t stay with my family anymore. I wanted to be with you again.”

Suddenly, her face falls and the shadows that belong to Vala descend over her, “She tricked me. She left me in your room at the university where Ozorne would find me. I was excited to see him. He was always nice, so I hugged him and told him that I was back. He smiled and told me he would take me to you. Instead, he took me to a cage beneath the palace. He would visit me, bringing me stories about you and I drank them like water. He always told me that he loved me and after a while, I started to believe him.”

Hate rises in my chest, stronger than any I ever felt when Ozorne had betrayed me. One day he would pay for all the things he had done to sate his selfish desires. That I could promise.

Her fingers dance across my cheekbone and my attention shifts to her sorrowful expression.

“I hurt you by telling you this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Shaking my head, I reply, “It isn’t you. I didn’t realize I could hate him any more than I already did.”

“Don’t hate him. I don’t.”

“Why not?”

She looks off into the distance, her mouth twisting into a melancholy smile, “He doesn’t know how to really love. It is sad. I feel sad for him.”

“You were always brilliant,” I tell her, a smile ghosting across my lips. It is strange, to think that the woman in front of me is the sunbird I had bid farewell almost eleven years ago but the proof is in her forgiveness. Only a heartful creature like Preet could feel the pain Ozorne had caused her and think it wasn't indeed his fault.

Titling her heard in avian fashion, she regards me curiously, “There you are.”

I furrow my brow, “What do you mean?”

Her head straightens and she shrugs, “Nothing. Should I continue?”

I hesitate but wave her on. Not because I need to hear the rest, I’m reasonably confident I know what will happen next, but because she needs to say it. It is a fact that I feel more than know.

“The final time the door to my cage opened, Master Lindhall was there. He took me away, gave me a new story, and put me on a boat to Tortall. Much like you, he sent me to a guardian and that was Callum.”

At the name, she becomes wistful, “I liked his voice. He spoke to me like you used to, softly- like he was telling me secrets. He taught me that the love Ozorne showed me was selfish and that there was a real love so different than the kind I felt for you. Hot, like a fire, instead of warm like sunlight. Evin came from that love but even the way I love him is different from the way I feel about anyone else. I would have never felt so many different types of love if I had stayed in the divine realm with my family.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I tell her and it isn’t a platitude. I am truly happy for her but then there is a question she has yet to answer.

As if she can see it in my face, she says, “I couldn’t find you in Carthak. Ozorne was there and thinking of seeing him again frightens me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I understand.”

“You really do,” Catching my gaze, she smiles, “I think that was why I didn’t say all this before. I was afraid that you weren’t my Arram anymore. I saw you on the ship and you had all this darkness in you that I couldn’t see the boy I knew underneath it but then, I’m not just Preet anymore either. Preet is a part of Vala just like my Arram is a part of Numair. I’ve seen him peeking through your eyes when you give me that sweet smile. Now I know we are still the same and we can be together again.”

My expression matches hers in shared joy and sadness, “I would like that very much, pretty bird.”

She closes her eyes as if basking in warmth, “Say it again.”

I chuckle and cross the distance between us to cup her cheek, “Pretty bird.”

Nuzzling my palm in avian affection, she fixes her deep eyes on me and I become lost in the ancient knowledge there, “I will always be your pretty bird. No matter what skin I wear.”

“Good, because I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I’ve missed you too, my fool.”

My hand falls away as something occurs to me and the thoughts come spilling out of my mouth in a single stream on consciousness, “So, you don’t need me to teach you about your magic. I mean, you already know how to use it, but then you collapsed after using it on those mage hunters, so that means-” I stop, unable to speak further as the words stick in my throat.

Much to my distress, she finishes the thought for me, “This body is not made for sunbird magic. If I use it too much, it will kill me.”

“Damned Graveyard Hag, I swear, one of these days she’s going to get her comeuppance.”

Vala rolls her eyes at me, “She is the Black God’s daughter. Even Mithros can’t touch her. Besides, she always has a reason for what she does. Even if we can’t see it.”

“I hope you’re right. I have the feeling I haven’t seen the last of her.”

“Probably not, but, as she would say, a deal is a deal. You can tell me how to control my magic now.”

I look at her for a long time, watching the tawny power dance around her like a flame in the descending darkness, casting the world in jeweled tones. The tendrils of it twirl around her like a knotted mess of vines that have been allowed to grow wild. It is strange how similar to my magic it looks.

“Well, I know dampening spells don’t work on sunbird magic, so there is only one course of action. Meditation.”

“Meditation?” Preet asks me, and she is Preet at that moment, not Vala. Preet holds an air of curiosity that looks unnerving on Vala.

“Yes, every evening from now on.”

“Why?”

I stifle a sigh, “Did you learn nothing at the university? Meditation is essential to control. It allows one to synchronize their physical self with their magical self. Meditation will keep you from doing silly things like burning out because you let your magic pour out of you like blood from a wound.”

Vala grimaces, “Meditation is boring.”

“It is not, it is necessary. Now stop arguing. Relax and clear your mind.”

She reluctantly mimics my position. Straight back, languid hands resting on her knees.

I close my eyes and let my voice fall into the rhythmic and soothing tones of an instructor. “Put all the thoughts out of your mind. Focus on the sounds of your heart, your lungs. Then let them fall away as well, until only your essence and your magic remain.”

There is a long moment of stillness before Vala suddenly shoots to her feet.

“What's wrong?” I ask her, stunned by the turn of events.

Her dark eyes find mine and the pain I see there puts her firmly back into Vala’s shoes.

“Tell me what’s wrong, pretty bird,” I say gently.

“I can’t. It will only make you mad.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It has to do with Ozorne,” she says and the air around me darkens, proving her point, “It is not worth hurting you.”

“It’s a small price to pay. Besides, we made a deal.”

“Yes, I said I would allow you to teach me. Whether or not I do it is my choice.”

Before I can argue, Vala spins around and joins the others around the bonfire. I follow her hesitantly but everyone seems happy pretending I had not left in the first place. I don’t have the heart to correct them. Not when the air is filled with famility and the scent of sweet berry wine.

As I settle between Onua and Jarra, I look to Vala but she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge my questioning gaze. Instead, she engages Evin in a game of matching song notes. The sweet sound of their voices settles on me like dream rose and I feel my thoughts drift away from Vala’s strange reaction as if something has stolen my frustration.

When Onua passes the bottle to me, I give it to Jarra without taking a sip.

“You don't want wine?” asks Jarra.

“Considering recent events, consuming alcohol would not be the best idea. Even caged my magic is rather volatile.”

Evin adopts his mother's avian gestures, cocking his head with an accompanying grin, “I can do magic too. You want to see?”

A moment of hesitation lends itself to a curious nod when Callum’s face glows with superior knowledge. Long lashes rest against youthfully rounded cheeks as Evin falls into a type of meditation. Then a robin appears in his gently closed fingers. It’s little head twists about, but it does not seem frightened. It seems more intrigued than anything.

I look to Vala with wide eyes but she only chuckles in response, leaving it to Callum to explain. “How long has your new friend been hiding in your shirt?”

Ducking his head, Evin answers his father in a small voice, “Not long.”

“Birds must be allowed to fly,” Jarra says sagely and Evin nods. Unfurling his fingers, he lets the bird take wing but it does not disappear into the trees as I believe it will. It lands on Evin’s shoulder and begins singing sweetly in his ear.

That is when it finally sinks in that Preet, the sunbird, has a son as sweet as she is and I find myself smiling at him. “Will you teach me how to do magic like that?”

Nearly bouncing with excitement, he leaves Vala’s side. His little friend doesn’t move from his shoulder, only flutters slightly to keep its balance as Evin settles onto his knees beside me.

Taking on an air of complete seriousness, he says, “You shouldn’t do it with real birds, you don’t want to hurt them. First, you have to practice with something small.”

“Like a coin,” Vala says.

I smirk at her, before retrieving the coin she had given me in Tyra, “How did you know I still had it?”

She passes me an expression that is a mingling of boredom and laughter, “I had not taken it back, of course.”

“Of course.”

Drawing my attention back, Evin holds out his hand for the coin and I set it in his palm. With exaggerated concentration, he tells me, “Watch close. I’ll do it slow.”

I watch as he twirls the coin through deft fingers before making it vanish. Then he lifts his other hand and the currency is sitting in his palm.

“Did you see how I did it?” he asks me.

When I nod, he hands the coin back to me. With a bit more flare, because I can’t help myself, I repeat the trick. The coin appears in my left hand and Evin claps excitedly.

“You learn quick!”

“You are an excellent teacher, Master Evin,” I bow from the waist-up throwing out my hand in a flourish of respect, “Will you teach me more?”

Evin’s excitement is palpable as he takes the coin back and begins to show me another sleight of hand. The way he moves, with such confidence, it makes each trick into pure magic. He has no gift; I knew that the moment I met him, but he has an enchantment all his own, the innate ability to make people smile.

It is then that I make a silent oath to the boy. I will save his mother whether she wants me to or not. I will do it for him because it would be a crime to let such a light fade.

***

After Evin and everyone else has gone to bed, I find myself lying in the grass of the nearby field with my hands beneath my head. The stars stare back at me, twinkling like the eyes of a thousand souls.

“Have ya thought ‘bout what I said?” asks Inar and I don’t bother trying to find him in the darkness of the new moon.

“I’m afraid I will be graciously declining your offer.”

“I figured dat’s wot ya’d say. Yer not one ta let go of ya morals easy.”

“No, I am not.”

Inar chuckles, “Gotta say, I’m almost happy ya decided not ta join me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. Mean de little bird weren’t wrong ‘bout ya. Besides, yer power'll be mine one way or 'nother." I hear a tap, like metal against glass and a flash of red light falls across my vision. I can feel the spell slide over me, calling to my magic but they clash together. One cannot easily steal from a thief. 

“So, this is your plan? To steal still my power for yourself with that cursed ruby eye? I have to say, you might get more than you bargained for in the end. Still, if that is your plan, it explains why you won't just kill me."

"Yer right ‘bout dat. Til we meet ‘gain, Black Mage.”

Just like that I know I am alone again but I can no longer take comfort in the stillness. Inar and I would meet again and I had the feeling it would be sooner than I would like.


	10. On The Wings of A Sparrow

The next morning brings with it new insights into who my little sunbird has become.

I emerge from my bedroll in a blind search for tea, hoping to caffeinate my encroaching headache away. Instead, I find Callum and Evin sitting beside the fire. The boy’s head hangs down, obscuring his face behind golden hair that has grown shaggy over the fall. Callum doesn’t speak but there is a comforting air in the way he rests his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

Evin looks up, shocking me with the puffiness around his eyes. In the blink of an eye, he stands and crosses to me, throwing thin arms around me and burying his face in my shirt. Unsure what to do, I pat his back gently as tears seep through cloth to chill against my skin.

With stilted movements, that are the exact opposite of the flamboyant man I had come to know, Callum moves to disentangle Evin from me. The boy goes reluctantly but eventually lets himself be led back to the fire as long as I sit beside him. Onua, ever observant, brings me a tin cup of tea.

I don’t know why it takes me so long to put the pieces together but when I do, I flick my eyes around the camp in search for confirmation. When they return to the fire, I know why Evin is crying.

“Vala left?” I ask Callum, my voice weighted by hurt.

Callum nods, “We will meet her in Corus.”

“Why couldn’t she stay?” Evin asks, new tears making his voice crack, “We were going to Corus anyways.”

“She never stays, Evin, you know that, but we always find her again.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, furrowing my brow, “She did not indicate that she was planning to leave.”

“One of the sparrows came,” says Evin, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “She always leaves when the sparrows come. I hate them. They aren’t like robins and bluebirds. They don’t sing songs for us; they only bring messages.”

“Sparrows?” I ask Callum, still thoroughly confused.

“I don’t fully understand it myself but it is a pattern. A sparrow arrives and then Vala disappears. It has been that way as long as I’ve known her.”

“She’s mentioned a Master of Sparrows before. Is that who sends the messages?”

Callum only shrugs, “She’s never told me who the Master of Sparrows is. Only that all the mage hunters are afraid of him.”

“How far are we from Corrus?” I ask, between sips of tea, my mind moving faster than I can truly comprehend.

“About a week,” Callum replies, “Why? I thought you weren’t all that excited about going to Corrus?”

“I’m not but Vala has a lot of questions to answer and she WILL answer them.”

“Good luck,” Callum’s sarcasm is borne of heartache. 

Despite his evident love for Vala, I know Preet far better than he does. I know what questions she will answer and which ones she won’t. Rather than say this though, I turn to Evin with a soft smile, “Master Evin, shall we pick up where we left off last night? Surely I have room to improve.”

“Why do you keep calling me Master?” Evin asks, keeping his eyes on the flames as if they could burn his sadness away.

I furrow my brow in a jester’s fashion, “Is that not the proper term for one trained in the ways of magic?”

“I don’t know real magic,” Evin says quietly, his shoulders slumping.

“On the contrary,” I reply, raising my long nose into the air in mock-arrogance, “everyone has a gift and each one is as wonderous as the rest. You have your own magic.”

Evin lights up, the shadows not entirely leaving his eyes but not as all-consuming as they had been, “You think so?”

“I know so.”

A small smile blooms across the boy’s face and in its light I feel I have finally done something good for the first time since leaving Carthak. Perhaps Callum had been right. I had never stopped being Master Arram Draper. It was the only title that seemed to fit, even when I wished it wouldn’t.

No, Arram was nothing more than a memory- a boy with too much curiosity and not enough practicality. I know who I am; player, mage, scholar, and teacher all rolled into one.

I am Master Numair Salmalin.

 

Over the next week, I fall into a routine. Evenings are spent around the bonfire with Evin. He shows me every trick he knows and, in the afternoons, I put what I learn to use earning coin on the streets of the closest city.

Despite things returning to a semblance of normalcy, I no longer join the others on stage. I prefer to work alone and no one speaks of the change. It is just another thing they accept, like the barren trees and the metallic tang of snow in the air — a shift in the season and nothing more.

My mornings are spent meditating. The consequences of my magic being caged but able to draw from other magical sources is that no amount of focus seems to keep it from rushing to the surface with every wayward emotion. I laugh and magic dances in my chest, I get angry and my gift vibrates under my skin, I become lost in absent thoughts and it drifts lazily through my bones. It has become nearly sentient, a mindful being that permeates my body. My gift is a frightening thing but it is as much a part of me as a limb. I can no more go on ignoring it. Eventually, it will break through its confines and I had to be prepared for that eventuality. 

As we ascend the final hill that will take us to Corrus Valley, Evin keeps watching me out the corner of his eye. When we crest the summit, I come to understand why. The valley is one giant city cut in the center by a wide river that lets out into a distant cove. At the far end of the valley, a white dome is surrounded by four towers and backed by fields that give way to a forest that extends as far as the eye can see.

“It’s pretty, huh?” Evin asks me.

“It could give Carthak City a few lessons,” I joke.

Onua chuckles as she pulls the cart up beside me, absently reaching out to the shaggy dun pony that never seems to be far from her side, “I wouldn’t go that far but Corrus has a certain charm to it. Me? I prefer the open desert. No city looks right compared to that.”

“I like cities more,” says Rian as he stops at Onua’s other side, Jarra and Mookie close behind.

“He thinks they are cleaner,” Jarra says with a laugh that offers her differing opinion on the subject. 

The last to join them on the hilltop is Callum but, unlike the others, he does not stop to admire the city below.

“You all know where to go. Numair and I will join you shortly.”

“Where are we going?” I ask him though I have the feeling I know the answer already.

He starts down the road toward the southern gates, “You boasted about getting answers. I have to say, I’m looking forward to watching you fail.”

“Your faith means the world,” I tell him sarcastically as I start to follow but Evin catches my sleeve before I can take a full step.

“I’ll see you tonight for lessons, right?”

I flash him a grin, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good,” he replies easily, immediately reassured by my answer.

When I turn back to Callum, he is watching Evin walk toward the city’s main gate with the others in tow, ready to protect him from the world if need be.

“I wish Vala understood what she does to him,” Callum says, not meaning to confess aloud, “Right now, Evin lights up every time she’s around but eventually that will change. I don’t want him to hate her but that is exactly what will happen if she keeps flitting in and out of his life.”

“Then tell him the truth,” I reply simply, “It can’t hurt any more than having your mother disappear on a whim and not knowing why.”

“I don’t think he would understand,” Callum’s head falls forward, defeated, “How does one explain to a ten-year-old that his mother isn’t exactly human?”

Moving to his side, I clap him on the shoulder, “I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit. He’s a smart boy. I suspect he knows a lot already but he just can’t put it all together. He needs his father to fill in the gaps.”

“You’re probably right, Master Numair.”

Callum stands a bit taller as he starts toward the city once more. In view of the northern gate, his flamboyance intensifies (if that’s possible) and he blows a kiss to the gate guard as we pass. 

The guard is dressed in dark blue from head to toe and has a single silver dog’s head embroidered on the right breast of his tunic. Around his neck, he wears a chainmail collar and I can deduce what it is for. In his left hand, he holds a halberd in a tight grip, his whitening knuckles the only indication that Callum’s gesture angered him. I expect him to stop us but he merely waves us through with a grimace.

At my confused expression, Callum smiles deviously, “Don’t worry, we have protection.”

Past the threshold, we quickly find ourselves in the darker part of the city, the part where shadows rule supreme. There are no street vendors or people milling about. Everyone eyes us, taking in our clothes and faces before cataloging the information for another time.

“What kind of protection?” I ask as I inadvertently catch the eye of a young man wearing a tattered leather jerkin and roughspun trousers. Unlike the Flying Snakes of Tyra, there is nothing to mark him as a gangster but I know what he is just from the glassy eyes and soured smile.

“The only kind that matters in Corrus. We have the protection of the Rogue.”

“I thought you didn’t work for the Rogue anymore?”

“I don't. Not directly. This way.”

Callum leads me down a broad street where a hanging sign marks an out of place manse as the Dancing Dove Tavern. Inside, the shadows become thicker, brought forth by flickering lamps encased in glass that hasn’t been cleaned in far too long.

“Barnie, my old friend. It has been oh so very long!” Walnut shells crunch under Callum’s boots as he saunters toward the barkeep. A dozen eyes follow him; each set narrowed in varying degrees of suspicion.

The barkeep is a weasel-like man in a dirty apron with shadows permanently surrounding his deeply sunken eyes. “Whatcha doin’ here, Poet?”

“I’ve come to find my sparrowling. Has she checked in?”

“She’s about as much yers as I am da queen. Now get outta here. Yer kind ain’t welcome here no more.”

Callum is taken aback by this but I can only tell because his smile has grown tighter, “Since when? As far as I remember, we’ve always been welcome at the Dove.”

“Things change. De Rogue gotta new home, so he don’t care ‘bout us little people no more. It ain’t gonna be long ‘fore he’s feeling the pinch for marryin’ dat noble broad. Gettin’ hisself all entitled and shite.”

The air around Callum turns dangerous and before I can blink the tip of his wrist-sheathed dagger is embedded in the wooden countertop. Still, he maintains a nonchalant demeanor, idly playing with the simple grip as he says, “You had better be careful, my friend. Some people might not take kindly to your insinuations. Just think if the Rogue himself heard you. His feelings would be rather hurt.”

Barnie is hardly impressed by the show, making visual contact with each patron and silently warning them away from the knives they had gripped in reaction. “Yer threats don’t mean shite here, Cal. Yer gonna have ta bring a lot more backup if yer gonna cut inta me counters.”

Callum removes his blade from the wood with a grin, pointing it casually in my direction, “You misunderstand the position you are in, Barnie. You see that young man? He might not look like it but he is one of the most powerful mages in the world and he owes me a life debt. He could turn you into a frog with a thought.”

Turning his dark gaze on me, the barkeep scans me from head to toe, “What’s yer name boy?”

“He doesn’t speak common. He only speaks Thaki, the language of sorcerers, but if I make this gesture-” Callum makes a strange signal with his hands, but I understand this game. 

Raising a hand, I mutter Old Thaki words under my breath. They are gibberish but my entire being starts to vibrate with energy as my gift begs to be unleashed. Even Callum’s eyes widen slightly as the room is filled with shadows that move as if alive.

The patrons, so ready to defend the barkeep a moment ago, froze. They are not foolish. The brave were remembered, but the smart lived longer.

“Hey now, dere ain’t no need fur all dat. Tell ‘im not ta burn de tavern ta de ground,” Barnie says quickly, backtracking as he realizes the actual danger.

Callum waves me off and, with a deep breath, I pull my power back into my core. It takes a lot more effort than it should but no one else needs to know that.

“Great!” Callum says, resting his elbows on the bar like any other patron, “So, tell me where my sparrowling is.”

“She told me not ta tell ye,” Barnie admits reluctantly, still eyeing me warily, “so once ya find ‘er don’t tell ‘er I’mma one dat sent ya.”

“You have my word.”

“She’s at de Gilded Lily.”

“Thank you, my good man. Now if you'll excuse us, we'd best be on our way.”

Slapping the counter, Callum turns on his heels and waves me toward the door. Before following I bow my head toward the barkeep and say, in excellently pronounced common, “Have a nice day, sir.”

Callum bursts out in laughter at the thunderous look on Barnie’s face as we exit.

Once we are outside, Callum’s laughter dies, and he curses in vivid fashion, “If she’s at the Lily she’ll have people watching her.”

“What kind of people?”

“The powerful kind.” Callum nods to the west where the palace looms like a shining beast.

“You can’t be serious.”

He waves away the tremble in my voice with an exaggerated gesture, “Don’t worry, Numair. This is not Carthak. Here, even the most powerful of people can be reasoned with, you only to know how to play to their vanity.”

“And I suppose you were trained in this art?” I ask sarcastically.

Callum smiles darkly, “I suppose we’ll have to see if I was a good student.”


	11. A Prison of Power

At the end of an alley is a small green door painted with golden lilies. The wind swirls over the cobblestones, bringing the scent of exotic perfumes to my nostrils. As we approach, the door swings open to reveal a tiny woman with a face that could make hearts melt. She smiles coyly and beckons us inside.

When we enter, the woman from the doorway disappears into the shadows cast by the fire roaring in the hearth. The rest of the brothel is abandoned, the polished wood tables and hanging flowers the only evidence of what must have been a thriving business moments before. Yet, that is not the first thing I notice. That honor belongs to the thick cloud of power which permeates the air like a fog and leaves me blind to the magical sensations I have only recently become reaccustomed to.

“Enough with the show, my love,” Callum calls into the darkness, his eyes scanning the room for the shade that would take Vala’s shape. Instead, a man emerges with a grin that can only be described as conniving.

He is slightly shorter than I am with shaggy blonde hair, sun-touched skin, and mischievous green eyes set above a crooked nose. When he speaks, it is with a lilting tone that is so close to laughter that the whole world becomes a joke. “She ain’t here. Ya know she ain’t.”

Callum sighs, “I should have known. She planned this.”

The man shrugs, waltzing forward without a care in the world, “Who’d know whatcha sparrowlin’ gets in ‘er head. How long ya gonna let her keep twistin’ ya about?”

The way Callum’s mouth tightens at the corners says far more than his fanciful words, “Until Father Universe collapses or Mother Flame burns us all away, for even Rogues know that the claws of love dig deep.”

“‘Cept I married de Lioness, while ya fell in love witta sparrow,” the man replies nonchalantly.

“The Lioness?” The question leaves my mouth before I can think to stop it. Even in Carthak, I had heard the tales of the Tortallan king’s champion, the fiery Alanna of Trebond.

Two pairs of eyes dance as they fall on me but only the man speaks, “Ya must be de one yer little birdie wanted me ta meet.” He puts out a hand, “I’m George. Who are ye?”

Tossing out his arm in an extravagant player’s gesture, Callum says, “May I introduce Master Numair Salmalin.”

I hesitate before taking the man’s hand, “It is nice to meet you, sir.”

When our hands touch, everything I am becomes known to him in an instant. I can feel it through my magic as well as see it in how the playful light bleeds from his expression. He takes a long moment to look me over, his contemplative gaze sliding slowly from my feet to my face. Then his darkened eyes flick over to Callum and he smiles once more. “Numair, eh? Sounds like a name from a fairy story.” His eyes move back to me, still smiling, “I’ll tell ya something, mate, I don’t like surprises but y’alls pretty bird always knows how ta keep me on me toes. Ya figure why she brought us all here?”

“I can guess,” I reply in frustration. It was a trick, a plan orchestrated by my little sunbird to deliver me into the hands of her “friends”.

“Good, den ya might be as clever as ya tink ya are.”

“If anyone’s suffering from a bloated ego, George, it’s you.” A shock of bright orange hair and searing amethyst eyes peek around the upholstered back of an overstuffed chair, revealing a visage that fits well with my mental image of the Lioness. What I don’t expect is that, when she pushes herself from her seat, her short and stocky frame is warped by a large, round belly.

The confusion must be painted across my face because she moves to stand before me with a glare that could have made a mountain crumble to ash. “Why would Vala bring you to us?”

“‘Cause his name used ta be Arram Draper,” says George.

My birth name brings the Lioness’ temper out in full force as she turns on her husband, “Does Jonathan know about this?”

“Nope, I didn’t even know ‘til now,” says George, completely unaffected by the rage pointed at him, “De birdie’s placed us in a right mess.”

“Do you know what will happen when the Emperor finds out he’s here?” The Lioness asks Callum, her voice rising with each word.

“Whatever you imagine is nothing compared to what would have happened if he had remained in Carthak,” Callum replies in the darkest tone I have ever heard him use.

Still, the Lioness’ anger never wavers and I feel defensive as her gaze sweeps over me “I wouldn’t believe Cal if he told me the sky was blue.” Her eyes settle on mine as if they would have nothing but the barest honesty, “So, tell me young man, is he telling the truth?”

With heavy shoulders I fulfill her wishes, or perhaps her fears, “I’m not one to boast. Gods know I could never find pride in a power that has caused so much pain.”

“Dat wasn’t yer doin’, lad,” George murmurs his interruption so that I barely hear him.

His assurance passes over me like cold water and I continue as if he had never spoken, “But I was made the youngest black robe mage in history, not because I am wiser or more clever than any other, but because my gift is capable of the unimaginable.” I think about seeing my father finally at rest in the peaceful lands, “Wonderous things.” Then I remember the contorted faces of those I was forced to kill, “and terrifying.”

I don’t realize that tears have begun to form on my lashes until the words have stopped pouring from my lips and I am surprised when a calloused hand reaches up to brush an escaped droplet from my cheek. The Lioness’ magic washes over me, as fierce and powerful as she is, and mine rises in response to tug at hers like the rope of a great bell meant to ring with the truth of my words. “Do you know what that’s like, Lioness?”

“Alanna,” she tells me softly, “my name is Alanna. Tell me, Numair, if you could be anywhere in the world. Where would you go?”

“Home.”

“And where is home?”

My head falls forward, dislodging her hand and allowing me to hide my pained expression, “I don’t know.”

“Tortall could be ya home,” says George and my head shoots up. Something about my expression causes him to shrug, “Tortall ain’t Carthak. Ya’d do a lot of good here.”

“That is difficult to accept on faith after you’ve been a slave to the whims of a mad man.”

“I s’pose dats true ‘nough,” says George, his knowing eyes capturing mine once more, “but ya gotta have a little faith sometimes. Elsewise, ya’ll be miserable all yer days.”

My response flows from my heart to sigh out of my lungs in a slow breath, “Faith is the only thing keeping me going. A naive belief that the gods gave me this gift for a reason.”

“I’m sure they did,” says Alanna and she steps back from me to cast a silent command on her husband. George merely nods. “If I give you my word that you will not be forced to do anything you don’t want to, will you come with us to meet the king? I’m sure that once you do, you will see that not all rulers are like the emperor.”

I don’t know what it is about the woman standing before me but I want to trust her; Perhaps it is how she seems so much larger than her shorter stature might suggest, or maybe it is the way her words sear me with their honesty but, slowly and hesitantly, I nod. Accepting it, Alanna gestures to the door.

Like bees emerging from a hive in spring, the people who previously inhabited the Gilded Lily swarm about the room and our exit is hidden within the buzz of conversations that pick up as if they had never been interrupted.

Callum and I follow George and Alanna through the streets, the palace growing larger and larger as we approach. The trepidation in my steps reminds me of old stories where brave knights marched forth to cut down the monsters that had once plagued the land. The immortals of old had been trapped in the Divine Realms by ancient mages, leaving behind only legends as proof of their existence, but I can’t help the feeling that I am approaching my own great battle. I’m brave enough to admit that the thought of being anywhere near the political elite is frightening. I trust Alanna but, then, I had trust Ozorne as well.

At the castle gates, a large man in full-plate stops us. The ruddy-faced knight keeps his jovial air confined to his eyes, the rest of him as hard as stone. Still, he is rather striking, his purple cloak draped across broad and powerful shoulders and his armor accentuating rather than hiding his sculpted form. His chest piece, adorned with a sun pierced by three lightning bolts, completes the picture of a warrior free from the harsh vetranization so often seen in Carthaki soldiers. This was a man who fought not because he feared the consequences of forsaking his duty but because he truly loved the country he protected.

“What are you two up to?” he asks Alanna and George before his eyes fall on Callum and their brown depths are eclipsed by an animosity that does not show in the rest of his carefully composed expression, “And why is HE with you?”

Laughing, Callum steps forward to clap the man on the arm, which the knight reacts to with a stoic showing of disgust. “Come now, Raoul, I have not taken a contract in almost a decade!” Raoul peers at him skeptically but Callum is unaffected, shrugging, “Well, at least I haven’t been PAID to kill anyone in nearly a decade. What can I say? Old habits die screaming.”

A snort from my left is George unable to stifle his laughter, which does not endear him to the knight at all. If I had been the focus of Raoul’s glare, I would have crumbled, but George is unable to rein in his barely contained mirth until his wife sends her elbow into his side.

“Right,” the sarcasm in Raoul's deep baritone tells me that by “right” he means “I don’t think you’re joking”. Instead of saying so directly though, the knight focuses on me and I feel very small beneath his scrutiny, “and who is he? A cutthroat in training?”

“Of course not!” Callum says, waving away the assertion like a pest, “He is Numair Salmalin, the most powerful sorcerer to ever live! He does not need to bloody himself when he could turn someone to ash with only a look.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“I’m not surprised. I mean, when was the last time you were in a tavern?”

Raoul casts a warning at Callum, which he ignores as he makes a show of leaning on the knight’s shoulder. “Well, taverns aren’t just a place for drinking, my friend. They’re a wonderful place to learn about the happenings beyond the borders. If you had heard the stories I’ve heard, you would know there isn’t a soul in Tusaine who doesn’t know his name.”

After pushing Callum away as if he were diseased, Raoul measures me and I begin to shift uncomfortably as he tries to determine exactly how much of Callum’s story is true and how much of it is fancy.

“Cal’s just telling stories,” Alanna tells Raoul with a glare pointed in Callum’s direction. He moves away from the knight like a kicked puppy. I have to say, I pity Alanna's unborn child. It isn't just anyone who could so easily put the player in his place.

Looking to Raoul, Alanna silently apologizes with a small smile, “We need to see Jonathan. You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s lurking?”

Under Alanna’s gaze, Raoul visibly relaxes and his shoulders shake in a silent chuckle, “Last I saw him, he was hiding in his study.”

“Lady Hensley?” Alanna asks, smirking knowingly.

“Yes. The woman is nothing if not persistent.”

“Ain’t dat de truth. A lesser man woulda given in by now, if not just ta have some peace. Den again, when yer wife’s as good wit a saber as Thayet is, I betcha don’t wanna get caught breakin’ yer vows.”

“You would know,” Raoul says, tilting his head in Alanna’s direction, “I could not imagine what your wife would do to you in such a situation.”

“She’d skin me livin’,” George says as if reciting simple fact, “Not dat I’d ever get ta dat point. A smart man don’t mess wit a good thing when he’s got it.”

Alanna rolls her eyes, “If you all are done. We came here for a reason.”

Stepping out of our path, Raoul tilts his head toward the palace, “Go on in.”

Raoul watches Callum as he passes, murmuring a, “I’ll be watching you, cutthroat.”

The guards on either side of the gate agree with their superior’s distrust, purposely placing their hands on their sword hilts in additional warning. Though Callum doesn’t seem unnerved by this, I can’t help but wonder what he had done as the “Poet” to earn him such a reputation.

I am led through the massive courtyard, blindly following my feet while my eyes are otherwise occupied combing through the faces of the wool and leather encased people that mill about the yard. Part of me wonders who I’m looking for while the other part can’t help cataloging the disturbing amount of eyes that follow me toward the palace’s massive oak doors.

Inside, I’m surprised by the lack of decoration. The walls are pale stone adorned with tightly-weaved tapestries, noble sigils standing where jewel-encrusted mosaics should have been. Even the nobles that mingle among long wooden tables seem like simple people, their finely tailored clothing tempered by the modest choices in fabric and distinct lack of gaudy adornment.

Up one of the two staircases is a long hall with doors set on either side like an inn. Alanna stops at the first one, rapping on the mahogany.

“Come in,” a commanding voice calls from the other side but just as Alanna reaches for the knob, the door opens and a familiar figure is framed in the doorway.

I am not the only one who is shocked to find Vala standing there with a smirk on her face and dressed in the costume of a prostitute, distancing herself from those who cared about her, but Callum is the first to make his confusion audible. “What are you doing here?”

“Singing songs,” she tells him and turns to dance into the center of the room beyond the threshold, waving us in behind her.

The room is the most lavish I have seen since entering Corrus but that could be a biased opinion as the first thing I notice is that the walls are positively covered in books. I skim the titles and find that they are perfectly organized, most of them historical accountings from across the world. The choice to surround himself with literature detailing the successes and failings of the past says a great deal about the man who sits behind the ornately carved cherrywood desk.

He leans back and steeples his fingers in front of his quirked lips. Stormy blue eyes become lit with a shattering of aqua as they fall on an increasingly frustrated-looking Alanna, sharing his history with the woman without meaning to.

“What’s this all about, Jon?” she asks as soon as Callum closes the door behind us, his hand lingering on the wood as if he is afraid to turn around and face the woman he loves while she wears the mask of deceit that obscures my pretty little bird entirely.

King Jonathan unfolds his hands, running one down his perfectly manicured black beard before letting them both hang over the arms of his polished high-back chair. “I likely know about as much as the rest of you. In fact, Vala was just about to explain when you knocked.”

Vala’s expression is serious but her voice maintains its bouncing tone as she pulls a piece of folded parchment from the crimson sash tied around her waist and places it on the desk. The king raises an eyebrow as he snatches it up but the moment the page unfurls his jaw begins to clench, “How long have you had this?”

“I came here when I got it. Wasting time would have only given him the advantage.”

“You’ve invited chaos to MY city,” the king accuses.

Vala doesn’t even manage to look apologetic, “This was the only place where I had the advantage. Inar has fingers everywhere else.”

“Inar?” I ask, my voice dangerously close to an embarrassing squeak.

The king ignores my outburst, keeping his heated gaze on Vala, “Thousands are living in this city and you’ve endangered them all.”

“Does that mean you won’t help?” Vala asks, cocking her head and smirking knowingly.

“I didn’t say that,” the king admits begrudgingly.

“Goddess be good! Will you tell us what in Oblivion is going on?” Alanna nearly yells.

With a sigh, the king holds the piece of parchment out to Alanna. Something passes between them that makes her hesitate before stepping forward to take it.

From over her shoulder, I see the markings on the page and I feel my heart stop as I recognize them. The words are written in a language older than even Old Thak, the lilting tongue of the ancient priest-mages who had once ruled over the populace of the western lands through the use of superstition and a belief in a single tenet- Chaos breeds strength and only the strong should be allowed to survive. If tradition was followed, the red ink is actually blood and I can almost taste the metallic tang on my tongue as I translate the words in a whisper, “The weak crave justice but the strong crave challenge.”

“It is a warning,” says the king, his voice a mingling of darkness and sadness.

Vala’s eyes fall on me and her lips move but, while I hear them, her words never make it past the sheet of ice that has encased me, “It was meant for you, my fool.”

“How did you get it?” George asks.

“A little bird brought it to me,” Vala replies without moving her gaze from me.

“A little bird?” Alanna asks skeptically.

“Yes, many little birds speak secrets to me.”

“Because you are the Master of Sparrows,” I say with all the emotion I might afford a conversation on the dynamics of water manipulation. I can’t force myself away from the indifference an academic state-of-mind gives me. If I did, I might fall to pieces. It was happening all over again. The unnatural power of my gift is dragging me back into imprisonment and trapping me in the life of a great battle mage — a life I never wanted.

Vala smirks at me, the light around her expression hiding the darkness beneath, “You always were a clever fool.”

“How long do we have before the Inar and his mage-hunters arrive?” Alanna asks, refolding the piece of parchment as if she wanted nothing more than to burn it.

“They are already here. If we move too soon, they will attack before we are ready.”

“Then we had best get ready fast,” she says and turns on her heel, but she doesn’t get far before the king stops her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Alanna turns her fiery glare on him, “To quietly gather the troops and prepare to defend the city.”

The king raises an eyebrow at her, his gaze flicking down to her midsection before returning to her face, “You think that’s a good idea, considering?”

If I thought I had seen the extent of the Lioness’ temper before, I found myself proven wrong by the rage she points at the king, “You can’t stop me.”

With slow movements, George crosses to his wife’s side and places a gentle hand on her stomach, as if he could communicate the love in his expression to the unborn child with just a touch. “I don’t like it, but dat ruby-eyed bastard’s never left a city standin’. If we wanna spare Corrus, we gotta have de best on deck.”

“No,” I say without thought and even I am surprised by the way my voice vibrates with power. The shadows are dragged from every corner of the room to surround me and my magic caresses my skin like hands gloved in satin. I know my power has ignited in my eyes as I pin Vala with my gaze, “I won’t let others risk their lives on my account. If Inar wants me, fine, I’ll hand myself over to him.”

No one is surprised by my lack of hesitation; they all just smile sadly at me as if they expected nothing less. I hate it. I hate how quickly these people had come to know how easy I am to manipulate.

“That would not stop Inar,” the king says sadly, “Every other time he has threatened a city only to have the ruler give in to his demands, he has not attacked but left a gang of his mage hunters to terrorize the citizens from the shadows. That is why Scanra belongs to the mage hunters in all but name.”

Much to my frustration, Vala’s mask fades away and I see my pretty bird smiling through her eyes, “I can send Inar’s underlings away but I will only do it if you agree not to turn yourself over to him. Inar would still attack but he would be alone.”

I shake my head at her antics, “You do realize that if Inar attacks that it is likely hundreds will die? The best course of action would be to let me turn myself over and then expel his mage hunters from the city once he is gone.”

“You’re right,” she looks at me with an expression that dares me to call her bluff, “but I will not do it if you turn yourself over. You have a choice, you can stay and we can fight Inar only, or you can turn yourself over and doom the people to suffer at the mage hunter’s hands.”

“You would doom hundreds?” Alanna asks her, gaping.

“I would but I will not have to. Numair will stay with us.”

Though it isn’t a question, I answer in a sigh of defeat, “Yes.”

“Good, then let’s go,” Vala says and bounces forward to loop her arm through mine. I shake her off but she barely seems to notice, “We will spend the night with our family and be ready to face the mage hunters at sunrise.”

I glare at her, “No.”

The anger in my tone finally knocks Vala off balance and she frowns at me, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“What I mean is that you don’t get to pretend like everything is fine. If you so much as step within a yard of me before sunrise, I will turn myself over to Inar. Consequences be damned.”

She has never looked as young as she does at that moment, her bottom lip trembling slightly, “Why would you say that? I only want to protect you.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I don’t need protection. I need a life that is mine.” The anger drains out of me in a heartbeat, pulling down my shoulders and bowing my head, “I’m tired of being a pawn in other’s games.” I purposely look away from her and to Alanna, “Forgive me Lioness, but some lines need to be drawn.”

“No need to apologize, Numair. I understand. For what it’s worth though,” Alanna bows her head to me as an ode of respect to a fellow champion of the people, “Thank you.”

I bow my head in formal, albeit grudging, acceptance of her gratitude and stride out of the room, leaving many saddened faces in my wake.


	12. What Would The Trickster Do?

Callum catches up to me in the hall, having to double his steps to keep up with my long stride. At first, he says nothing but as we exit the palace, he looks at me out the corner of his eye and says, “I told her to stay away from the player’s village for tonight. I can hardly believe she would make such a threat, nevertheless MEAN it."

I merely nod, acknowledging how difficult that was for him to admit. He loves her and she loves him but they had tempered that love in the snows of feigned indifference for too long. When it came down to it, their love survived on a simple truth. No matter how much Callum disliked the consequences, he would play his sparrowling’s games.

“Are you frightened?” he asks after another long moment.

“I would be lying if I said I was not. I am sure Inar would have received his own black robe if he had attended the University. If he really wants my power, he will find a way to get it and there is not a damn thing I can do to stop him.”

“If you had your magic do you think you could beat him?”

“Honestly? No. My magic is rather unpredictable which is detrimental in a duel. At this point, my only hope is that Vala will keep up her end of the bargain and Inar will leave the people here alone once he's finished with me.”

Clapping me on the shoulder, Callum lets out a long breath, “You’re a good man, Numair.”

“Much to my possible demise.”

“Yes, well, if that comes to pass, go to the Peaceful Lands knowing that I will be living like a king after I sell off that golden heart of yours.”

Despite my decidedly dour mood, a chuckle escapes me and Callum grins victoriously, “There, that’s better. Now, I think I’m going to get horribly drunk. Will you join me?”

I shake my head, a slight smile pulling at the corners of my mouth, “That would be a terrible idea. I wouldn’t want to make things too easy on Inar by adding a head-splitting hangover to the mix.”

“Right, then I’ll get drunk and you can watch. It’ll be fun.”

“As you say,” I reply rather sarcastically and Callum laughs.

The moment we enter the player’s section of the city, I hear my name and a small body collides with my waist. I look down into the bright eyes of Evin, who is grinning up at me with so much happiness it’s impossible not to smile in return.

“You came back!”

“Of course I did,” I tell him with mock arrogance, “The scholar in me would never allow me to miss a lesson.”

Taking my hand, he practically drags me to the small camp where the rest of our player family is gathered around the fire. They all smile at me in greeting and I become lost in their welcoming warmth.

As night descends, I let the rest of the city fall away playing sleight-of-hand games with Evin and listening to Callum sing bawdy songs off-beat from Rian’s lilting flute. Unfortunately, duty descends just as quickly as the darkness.

Callum stands, swaying slightly and speaking in what is supposed to be a whisper but ends up as a slurring speech, “Well, family. Tomorrow waits for no man and it shall not wait for us. Gather your things and I will lead you from the city!”

“Why?” Evin asks, “Where are we going?”

Callum stumbles forth to clap his son on the shoulder, “Pirate’s Swoop. I have decided we shall winter on the coast this year!”

“I thought we were gonna winter here?” Onua asks, suspicious, “The Swoop ain’t got enough people to see us through to spring.”

Callum agrees, “True, but we will not need to worry for the Baron and his Lady have decided to host us this year. We shall live in comfort within the Swoop’s walls!”

“You’re drunk,” Rian accuses him, so I speak up.

“While that is true, what he says is valid. You all need to leave for this Pirate’s Swoop before sunrise.”

“Why?” asks Jarra and I can tell by the way she reaches for Rian’s hand that she is not nearly as composed as she seems.

I duck my head, “The mage hunters are coming for me.”

“Then we can’t leave!” Onua tells Callum, her eyes wide, “We can’t leave the boy to fend for himself. He’s one of us!”

I capture her wise gaze, “Please, Onua. I would never be able to forgive myself if anything happened to any of you.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Onua argues but Jarra places a hand on her arm.

“If Numair would feel better without us here, we should listen. Not because we are incapable but because we trust him to do things on his own.” She smiles at me, “We will leave if you think it is best but only if you promise that you will meet us Pirate’s Swoop.”

I sigh, averting my gaze, “I cannot promise that.”

Rian squeezes his wife’s hand, “We are not looking for a guarantee, Numair. We are only looking for reassurance. If you promise to meet us, we will know that you did everything you could because you would never break a promise if you could help it.”

Running my hands through my hair, I reluctantly say, “When you put it that way, then I suppose I cannot argue.”

“You have to say the words,” Evin quietly demands, his head bowed in sadness and his shaggy hair falling to obscure his features, “If you don’t say the words then it’s not a promise.”

My focus is entirely on him as I say, “I promise.”

“Good,” the boy says and pushes himself to his feet to begin breaking down the camp.

The adults are frozen for a moment, staring after the boy who had broken their hearts with his ability to be both mature and innocent. It was then that I knew I had to do my best to survive the sunrise, if for no other reason than to make myself worthy of Evin’s respect.

I watch my family disappear into the night, Rian and Evin half-carry a stumbling Callum while Jarra helps an only slightly less drunk Onua. It is only after I settle next to fire again that the weight of the impending sunrise weighs on me.

“Don’t worry, Numair. Everything will work out alright.”

I grimace at Vala as she passes into the circle of light surrounding the still-roaring fire. I wish I could mirror the confidence in her expression but that is beyond my reach at the moment.

“You are not supposed to be here.”

She frowns at my sneering tone, “I know you will not make good on your threat. Besides, they are my family too; I wanted to say goodbye.”

I scoff, “Really? I find that hard to believe. Did you even think about them before you put together this great conspiracy? About how they would feel?”

“Of course I did,” she says and I can see the hurt in her expression before she hides it from me, “I love them.”

“If you did, you would have explained this all weeks ago. Not left Callum and I to do it on the eve of destruction.” Vala does not bother arguing with me and a long moment goes by in silence before I ask, in a much more even tone, “What are you really doing here, Vala?”

“My name is not Vala,” she tells me, “Not right now.”

“You’re not Preet either. That only leaves one persona and I’d prefer not to spend what could be my last moments with the Mistress of Sparrows.”

“Then who would you like to spend them with?” she asks me, curious more than anything.

I shrug, not seeing the point in lying, “I would want to spend it with Preet. The sweet little sunbird I used to know but I’m afraid she is truly lost to me.”

Slowly, she moves to settle by my side and pats her lap like a mother urging her child to lay down. I shake my head.

“Lay down, my fool,” she says softly and reaches over to skim her fingers down my temple, “I may not be Preet right now but I can help you find some peace before the storm.”

For reasons I can’t even begin to comprehend, I do as she asks. Resting my head on her lap, I look up at the stars. There are fewer here in the city than in the countryside, their nebulous beauty obscured by the lights glowing from thousands of windows.

Vala begins to hum, her beautiful voice rising and falling in a melody that I recognize as the same song she had sung to me in the days before she became trapped in human form. Her soft hands comb through my hair, gently detangling my curls and arranging them in a fan around my head. It is the first time I realize I have not cut my hair in months, falling back into the habit of tying it back with whatever I could find without knowing I had.

“It’s almost back to its old length.” Vala echoes my thoughts, lifting the tendrils so I can see them before they slide through her fingers to fall back across her legs. “I like that Numair has long hair now. It reminds me of Arram and I think you’ll need Arram more then you’ll need Numair tomorrow.”

“I’ll need them both,” I tell her, “Arram knows magic but Numair knows how to survive.”

Her voice goes distant and I look up to see her head has fallen back, staring at the sky above, “You must survive. Otherwise, we will all end up at the mercy of Chaos.”

“I thought you were supposed to be taking care of that?”

She looks back down at me and I become lost in the void of her infinite eyes. Set against the universe above, they make me feel small. Another spoke in the wheel of time. “No one can save the world alone.”

Waving away her prophetic words, I say, “It’s hardly the world at stake.”

“You don’t know that,” she says, “not even the gods know how each battle, big or small, might affect the path of the world. All they can do is place the pieces and hope for the best.”

“This isn’t a game, Preet,” my voice remains soft, instructing rather than admonishing.

“I know. You might not think I do, but I do. Sometimes it's easier to think about things like a game though, that the pieces will go back to normal once it’s all over but they don’t. When the sun sets tomorrow, everything will be different.”

That brings a question to my lips before I can stop it, “How are you going to manage to send ALL the mage hunters away? It nearly killed you just to stop those three in the alley.”

“I cannot die, my fool. I’m an immortal.” Her confidence is fool-hearted, she is not a sunbird anymore and therefore no longer immortal, but that is hardly the point.

“You aren’t planning to live through tomorrow, are you?”

She shrugs as if the answer she gives is of little importance, “My life is not what matters in the end.”

Despite the residual anger I feel toward her, I reach up to let my fingers brush the skin beneath her eye, “It matters to me. I won’t let you die for me.”

“You cannot stop me. I will keep up my end of the deal. You must keep yours.”

“I thought only tricksters used deals?” I ask her, my voice empty of the light that would have made the words into a jest.

“Yep. I am a trickster. You are not.”

I want to tell her that she is wrong. Then a thought occurs to me and I don’t let myself think about the potential consequences, if I do I might talk myself out of it. Slowly, I sit up and take her hand into mine. My magic rises to the surface of my skin. “I’m sorry, pretty bird.”

Her eyes widen in betrayal for only a moment before they soften into a smile, “You really are a clever fool.”

The barrier cannot contain both the sunbird magic and my gift, cracking like glass under pressure before rupturing completely. The overwhelming power ignites my blood and threatens to turn me to ash from the inside out. Then Vala’s hand falls from mine and the pain stops, leaving me caught in a state of cold fusion as my magic and Vala’s dance freely around me.

Her eyes roll back in her head and I catch her as she falls. Lifting her into my arms, carry her through the city.

With her magic running through me, I can feel the hearts of every person and I touch each one, finding the those blackened by chaos and silently whispering a command. Vala’s magic forces them to obey, taking control of their limbs and sending them running from the city.

Not really knowing where I am going, I find myself at the palace standing in the room where Alanna and George are sleeping, fit together like two puzzle pieces. As the magic reaches out to them, they wake with a start and pull weapons from secret places around their bed.

Alanna is the first to blink me into focus, lowering her dagger and furrowing her brow, “Numair? What in Oblivion?”

Turning, I gently lay Vala down in an overstuffed chair, “Will you watch over her? When she wakes, she will not be happy about what I have done.” I don’t like hearing my voice distorted in that same chorus Vala had used to send away the mage hunters in the alley.

“Wat ‘r ya doin’, mate?” asks George, rubbing a hand down his face.

I pass Vala one last plea for forgiveness before pinning Alanna and George with a look that would brook no argument, “I have sent all the mage hunters away from the city. Now there is only Inar to deal with. I am going to face him. Alone.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Alanna asks.

My shrug comes off as absent, “I think it is the right thing to do.”

Alanna flips back her covers, “I’ll help.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” I tell her, and she becomes still as Vala’s magic arrests her. If glares could kill, I would have been dead at that moment.

“Release me,” she sneers and I do, my head hanging sadly.

“Forgive me. I have never used this type of magic before.”

“Ya took de birdie’s magic,” says George.

I nod, “I could not let her sacrifice herself for my sake. She has much more to live for than I do.”

“You shouldn’t be so ready to discount your own life,” Alanna growls, tossing her feet over the side of the bed and struggling to stand around her large belly, “You sound just like my brother. He was a damned fool too, forgetting about the people who care about him.”

“I do not plan to die,” I say and step backward toward the threshold of the room, “but if I do, it means I won’t be anyone’s pawn anymore.”

Alanna moves to stand before me, narrowing her eyes at me in command, “If you die, you fool, I’ll drag you back from the Black God to kill you myself.”

George chuckles but it rings partially sad, “I’d listen ta her, mate. She don’t make such threats easily.”

Despite myself, I smile at her, “I will do my best.”

Waving me off, she says, “Then go, dolt. I’ll make sure your damned songbird doesn’t interfere.”

I force down the platitudes that stick in my throat. There is nothing I can say that would not be a lie. Instead, I say, “Thank you, Alanna.”

She turns away from me, “You’d best hurry before I change my mind.”

 

A familiar face awaits me outside the palace, leaning against one of the guard walls as if she has not a care in the world. Seeing the elderly goddess, I can almost believe it is all a dream but I know it’s not. “I told you to follow the sparrow. Did you forget?”

“Of course not,” I tell the Graveyard Hag, not looking at her but toward the sun ascending over the walls and continuing on my path toward it, “but I cannot continue to do so. Not with so many lives at stake.”

Pushing away from the wall, the Hag falls into step beside me, smiling her knowing smile, “I know, my clever boy.  I’m glad you chose not to. You’ve opened up a whole new world of possibilities.”

Forgetting myself, I say, “At least someone doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot.”

For a mere moment, the perpetual grin flickers from her face, “I wouldn’t say that. You might have just made things worse, depending on how things turn out, but I’ve done all I can for you. Things I shouldn’t have done but that I’ll gladly pay the price for.”

“Why?” I ask, not surprised, merely curious.

She smirks, “I already told you. Clever fools are my weakness.”

“That’s good to know. I still owe you for what you did to Preet.”

She scoffs and waves away my words, an admission without truth falling from her lips, “We’ll fight about that later. Just know I’m bettin’ on you...”

A set of dice, carved from diamond and faced with rubies, drops from the Graveyard Hag’s hand to roll across my path. I step over the three and six that look up at me, the magic number three multiplied by itself.

Though the Graveyard Hag has disappeared from my side, I hear her cackle echo through my mind, “...So you’d best stay alive, my boy. I don’t like to lose.”


	13. With The Sunrise Comes The Truth

It was a beautiful day, the silvers of first snow lingering on the horizon. The poets of old painted winter as a god of death, rushing over the land like a plague, but I had always thought of winter as a somewhat pure. It was a cleansing, sweeping away the old to make way for the renewal of spring.

Standing on the highest hill, overlooking the splendor of Corrus Valley, I can almost see that spring. And the one after. Yet they are partially obscured by the tall shadow that mars the day like a scar. Dying grass crunches beneath Inar’s feet as he marches toward me, the smile on his face welcoming me into the arms of the Black God.

“You’re a good man, Black Mage, standin’ out here so’s the people of Corrus won’t be caught in de battle. Not dat it’ll stop me underlin’s from causin’ a bit of a ruckus. They serve the Queen of Chaos afta all.”

“I’m not worried about them. I’ve made a few more friends since we last saw one another.”

“No, ya haven’t. Yer little sparrow’s called in ‘er back up. Not dat I care. Let me underlin’s have der fun. It’ll make ‘em stronga in de end.”

“No soul may know Chaos and peace,” I say, quoting the Book of Chaos.

“Peace is borin’,” says Inar with a grin that sends a chill down my spine, “I take comfort in knowin’ I can live witout it. Whatta ya take comfort in?”

I meet his rubied gaze and find my own sadness reflected in the fractals, “Faith. Faith that this is where I’m supposed to be. Standing between chaos and the innocent.”

“Means ya’ll neva know de peace ya’re protectin’.”

“I know,” I reply with a heavy sigh.

“Den we’d best get to it, eh?”

“I suppose we should.”

Inar’s ruby eye flashes and I put up a shield just in time to block the siphoning spell contained within. I feel the earth beneath my feet rebel against the darkness in his power and wonder just how close to the legendary goddess of chaos Inar is. How much of his soul he has traded for his ability.

“Ah, I see ya figured out how ta free yerself. Good, there ain’t no fun ta be had when de prey rolls over fur ya.”

As another blast of Inar’s power falls against my shield, tearing at it like claws, I let it go. I gather my strength and whatever power Inar throws at me, forming it in my hands. I whisper to the magic, and it obeys- the mass flying toward Inar to shatter his shield in a rain of red, black and tawny stars.

“It’s been a while since summin’s done dat,” says Inar, clearly enjoying the thrill of the battle. If only I could say the same. My skin crawls as my gift seeps into every cell of my being and I detest the pleasure it brings me.

I’m so consumed by the sensation that I don’t see Inar whisper a word of power. My magic reacts on its own, shielding me from the worst of the transformation spell but the force of it knocks me backward. I slide through the dirt, the grit filling my eyes and mouth until all I can see or taste is earth. My entire body screams in pain, and I can swear that every bone in my body has been crushed when, in actuality, parts of my muscle have turned to wood.

I patiently wait for the Black God to end my suffering and wonder how I could have managed to fail so horribly so quickly.

Then a bird flutters by my ear and with it comes a whisper, “You are who you are, Numair.” The voice is one I don’t know but I feel like I should. It echoes down to my very core, warming me like a summer breeze even as it howls with the winds of winter. My heart pounds in my chest and I know that the Black God is not coming for me. I cannot die. That voice, whoever it belongs to, won’t let me. I clench my teeth and rise, my gift rising with me like a deadly storm.

Inar merely laughs, the dark sound reverberating across the realms.

In the distance, I see myself once more reflected in Inar’s ruby and I am a frightening sight to behold. As dark and tempestuous as the night sea. Letting so much power flow through me without control feels wrong and there are a dozen voices in my head telling me versions of the same thing. “This is dangerous,” Lindhall says. “You are a monster,” says Chioke. “How much more ya got in ya, Black Mage? I’m bettin’ not much,” says Inar, but his voice is corporeal.

Then the voice speaks to me again, echoing around me like the song of a thousand wolves calling down the stars. “You know who you are.”

It is then that I finally let go of all those voices in my head. I know who I am. I am the player, the mage, the friend, the brother, the teacher, the student. In the end, they are just titles but they describe the same man. I am Numair Salmalin.

The part of me that has more curiosity than could be considered healthy remembers a simple spell from a passage in Archmage Yorin’s treaties on deception magics. I whisper it, hiding the power I have amassed behind the illusion of weakness. Meanwhile, I put to use the abilities I had honed captivating crowds and feign the heaviness of defeat. Finally, I let Vala’s magic dance across my vocal cords.

Keeping my voice low so that the vibrating power does not give me away, I tell Inar, “I’m done. Take what you want. Just promise you’ll leave the people alone.”

As if he cannot help himself, Inar says, “I promise,” and his ruby flashes. I feel my power being ripped from me but there is too much of it for Inar to hold. He realizes his folly too late as his body begins to burn up. Parts of his skin go black, sloughing away in ash-like flakes, while the ruby glows so brightly it is nearly blinding.

Still, Inar is not frightened, standing in awe of my ability and slowly closing his organic eye. Raising his face to the sky, he murmures, “Tis amazin’.”

Stepping forward, I place my hand on his chest. “No, Inar. I won’t let you die. That isn’t who I am.”

Inar’s eye opens and he glares at me as I call to the power within him, siphoning it back into my body. It is not just my overwhelming gift that returns though. Along with it, I take all of Inar’s magic as well. He gasps at the sensation, weakness overcoming him. Just before his magic would have started to tear at his lifeforce to replenish itself, I whisper a dampening spell. His essence maintains a steady glow even as his crimson magic snuffs out like a candle.

His eye widens as he realizes what I have done and he throws himself at me, wrapping his hands around my throat, “I’m going ta kill ya, ya son of a whore!”

I don’t react emotionally, gently pushing him back with my magic and trapping him in a cage of hardened light. Inar pounds his massive fists against the cage, “Ya’d best kill me ‘cause once I get outta here I’m gonna hunt ya ta de ends of de earth.”

“I believe you,” I tell him simply, “but I reiterate that I am not a killer. Not if there is another way and there always is.”

I send my power through the ground to wrap around the cage and a single word emerges from my lips. It is a word that should not be spoken but I say it anyway. A hole opens in the ground and Inar is pulled into the Divine Realm, where not even the Black God can find him. I can see him, trapped in a cave of crystal with only his reflection for company.

“You cannot keep me here forever!” he yells, but I do not respond. 

I let go and the tear in the fabric of reality stitches itself back together as if it had never opened in the first place. In its wake, I know I have drained myself, leaving nothing but a void where my essence should be.

“You bloody dolt! I told you not to die!” Alanna’s yell echoes in my ears. The fear in her voice says a lot about my condition but I cannot share in it. I can’t feel much of anything, only the sensation of falling.

Vala’s face appears before my watery vision, and I futilely try to blink her into focus.

“What have you done?” she asks from somewhere that is both near but also very far.

Before the void finally consumes me, I manage a chuckling whisper, “I won the game.”


	14. The Die Is Cast

The darkness is broken by a cackle, one I recognize as belonging to none other than the Graveyard Hag. “I think he deserves a bit of a reward. Don’t you, father?”

“I cannot simply give him to you, my daughter. You know the rules. He will only return to his flesh if he wishes it so.”

“Your work’s not done, clever boy. Will you leave it half finished?”

“No. I want to go back,” I say but I don’t know I have spoken.

“Good. What do you say, father?”

“He is yours. I never could deny you.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. This is a terrible thing you are doing.”

“It is what I was born to do. To play the games the Great Gods don’t want to.”

I feel the air shift around me and the umbrage bleeds away to reveal the night darkened sands of the arena.

“You should’ve killed him,” the Hag says, coming to stand before me, “He’ll be a problem later.”

“As you say but, even knowing that, I would make the same choice again.”

She throws up a boney hand in frustration, “We’ll see if that’s the tune you’re singing when find out what’s really at stake.”

“I doubt I could ever come to regret my decision. I’m not a killer. I never have been. What I am is clever and clever people find a better way.”

The Hag lets out a long sigh and reaches up to pat my cheek, “You’re the silliest clever boy I’ve ever known.”

“Yes, but you knew what you were getting yourself into when you chose me.”

“I sure did. Now, it’s time for you to wake up. You’ve gotta lot of work ahead of you.”

“Do I? I thought I might have earned a holiday after all this.”

The hag laughs, “You’d be bored within an hour.”

I chuckle, “You’re probably right but, before I get started, I should say thank you.”

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for. You made the right gamble, you earned your reward.”

 ***

I open my eyes and immediately close them again as the bright sunlight sends spots across my vision and an acute pain through my head.

“There you are. I was starting to think you would not wake up.”

A smile comes unbidden to my lips and I can’t help but laugh at my pretty bird’s laughing tone. “I doubt you would let me remain asleep forever. Gods know you would have dragged me back to the realm of consciousness whether I wanted you to or not.”

“Damn right and I wouldn’t have blamed her one bit!” Alanna yells from somewhere farther away. “You’re a fool! You know that don’t you? You could’ve exhausted yourself right into the Black God’s arms!”

“Nice to see you too, Alanna.”

“See? You can’t even open your bloody eyes!”

“A temporary affliction, I assure you.”

I hear a single footstep and a chuckle before George says, “Leave ‘im be, luv. I think he’s earned a bit of mercy. We’ll leave y’all to it. Sure ya gotta lot ta talk ‘bout.”

“Thanks, Rogue,” says Vala.

“Yer welcome, Sparrow,” George replies and the sound of a door opening and closing rings in my ears. I grimace at the pain it causes me, and I feel a gentle hand trail across my forehead.

“You don’t seem all that surprised I am alive,” I whisper and her touch disappears, painting her guilty. “The Graveyard Hag spoke to you?”

“Arram, look at me. Please?”

Reluctantly, I open my eyes and find Preet’s bright face looking down at me. Her hand takes mine and she nuzzles my palm, “You died, my fool. You can’t do something like that ever again. Alright?”

Running my thumb across her cheek, I say, “Alright, pretty bird.”

“Good,” she says but there is a glimmer in her eye that betrays her false confidence, “I have finally learned what is important and I am not prepared to let it go easily.”

“And what is that?” I ask her, suddenly serious.

She flicks her dark gaze in my direction, “Family.”

I nod and push myself up, propping myself against the ornately carved headboard. The room is filled with similar furniture, all of it as foreign to me as I am to the land it inhabits. “Then I suppose the only question left is where we go from here?”

“I taught you everything I can and it is time for you to leave the nest. If you want to stay in Tortall, I think the king would be glad to have you. If you want to sail back to Carthak and send Ozorne to the Black God, well, you could do that too. The world belongs to you, Numair, I’m done choosing your path for you. But, if you ever need me,” turning her face toward the window, she smirks at the empty ledge, “Well, the birds know how to find me.”

“Thank you for that,” I say quietly before reaching across the distance between Preet and I and urging her to meet my gaze, “Still, what do you think I should do?”

“I think you should stay in Tortall. You could do a lot of good here and the world could always use more goodness. Besides, Alanna will look after you.”

“Has Alanna agreed to such a great undertaking? I require a lot of looking after.”

“I know that better than anyone, my fool. I have been looking after you since I first saw you in the Seeking Waters.” Her words are like a joke, but there is an undercurrent of love to them that I cannot ignore. Though my limbs feel like jelly and my muscles ache, I pull her into my arms. She returns the embrace and I know I have finally found what I have been searching for, “Home is where the heart finds peace.”

Preet pulls back, cocking her head in puzzlement at my declaration, “We’ll always be family, Numair. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I do.” I settle back against the pillow and close my eyes, “Now, I think I’m going to get some more rest before my body rebels completely.”

She kisses my forehead like she is bidding me goodnight, “Then I hope you have sweet dreams.”

I open one eye to peer at her, “You won’t be here when I wake up again, will you?”

Vala looks down at her lap and shakes her head, “I still have much to do.”

“Then I have one request before you go.”

“Oh yeah? And what is that?”

Opening my other eye, I pin her with a severe expression, “You can flit in and out of my life all you like but your son needs his mother. Promise me you will talk to Evin, he deserves to know the truth.”

“That’s a difficult promise to make,” she tells me quietly before she meets my gaze, “but I cannot say no to such a wish. If that is what you want.”

“More than anything, pretty bird.”

She nods and stands, “Then sleep in peace while you can.”

I close my eyes once more, “I will.”


	15. FINAL CHAPTER: Home

“How much farther?” I ask, shifting in the saddle and trying to hold on for dear life. The mare Alanna had saddled for me was gentle enough but her patience had run thin a few miles back and I am sure she is trying to subtly bounce me from her back just to have some relief from my shocking lack of grace.

“Not much,” Alanna says, reining back her tall black war stallion to fall in beside me. She rolls her eyes at the way I grip the saddle as the mare picks her way across the rocky road that leads from Alanna’s home at Pirate’s Swoop down to the pebbled shore. “You’re hopeless; you know that?”

I pass her an annoyed glare, “I’m well aware. You’ve just had a child and you ride as if you live in the saddle. Meanwhile, I’m over here praying that, when I eventually fall, I don’t get trampled to death in retribution. What can I say, Alanna? I’ve never much liked riding.”

“We’ll have to do something about that. I’ll talk to the king’s hostler when we get back to Corrus. Maybe he can find you a horse that won’t try to murder you after a couple of hours.”

“If such a horse exists,” I reply on an exhale, doubt in every word. There is no way that any living creature can command THAT amount of patience. Still, I loosen my grip on the saddle and pet the mare’s neck, “I’m sorry you were stuck with me but, if you forgive me, I’ll make sure you’re given an extra few treats when we return to the stable.”

The mare’s ears prick at that, seemingly understanding and agreeing to the deal as my ride becomes much smoother.

“I hope you’ll decide to stay,” Alanna says after a long silence.

“I know but I’m afraid that what you said at the Gilded Lily still holds true. If the Emperor finds out I am here, he will not hesitate to start a war of retribution. Even being here these last few months has put the whole of the country in danger.”

“The Emperor can go hang for all I care. Besides, if the whispers from the east are to be believed, not much will stop him from turning his eyes to Tortall eventually anyways. A series of freak storms have destroyed the fields and many doubt they’ll be able to plant crops this year.”

“And after Ozorne conquered Saraji, he ordered the fields sown with salt. The people of Carthak will starve this winter if the Emperor doesn’t find a way to feed them.”

“Exactly and Tortall has more good farmland than all the other countries combined. It’s just a matter of time. If you stayed, you could help us keep Ozorne at bay and save a lot of lives.”

“Or I could doom a lot more. If I’m here, the Emperor will try to use his knowledge about me to his advantage.”

Waving away my argument like a pest, Alanna points toward the horizon, “We won’t let that happen. Now, look over there.”

A crumbling tower sits on the edge of a hill, overlooking the sea like a lighthouse but without the parliaments that would make it useful as such.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” Alanna says, almost looking pleased with herself.

“Why?”

“I thought you’d like the story behind it. The tower was built a long time ago by a mage named Edmur. He had once been an advisor to the king but his lover was poisoned by a jealous noble. After turning the lord to dust, Edmur abandoned the capital and found refuge here. He weaved his magic into every stone, creating a haven for himself away from the rest of the world. Then, one night, a girl knocked on his door. She was the survivor of a shipwreck, cold and tired. At first, Edmur only offered to take her to Pirate’s Swoop but he soon took pity on the shivering thing and invited her in. Once inside, the girl’s glamour melted away to reveal his lover had come back from the dead. She had tricked the jealous lord and escaped to Tyra until she knew it was safe to return to him. Reunited, they lived happily until the end of their days.”

“That is a good story,” I admit, “but that doesn’t explain why you brought me here. You could have easily told me the story while we were both warm beside the fire.”

Alanna eyes me sideways like I am an idiot, “I brought you here, you fool, because I want you to rebuild the tower and have it as your home. After all, a place with such a sweet story shouldn’t be left to crumble into oblivion.”

I open my mouth to argue but Alanna cuts me off, “Whether or not you decide to stay, I want you to have a place you can call your own.”

“Why?” I ask, stunned.

“Because you're a good person and good people are rare in this world. I like you, Numair, and I don't want you to have to wander the earth with just the clothes on your back. Besides, by keeping you within riding distance of the Swoop, I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't get yourself into any trouble.”

Still at a loss, I barely manage a, “Thank you,” as I stare at the tower. Already I can see the rebuilt structure in my mind, the stones cast in the gold of a summer sun reflecting off the waves.

A place to call home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally finished it. I hope everyone enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated, both positive and (constructively) negative.


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